


The Musgrave Mystery

by Lilith (Citrine)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Humor, Eventual Romance, First Time, Gay Sex, John's curious about Sherlock's past, John's not gay or is he?, M/M, Murder Mystery, Plot elements borrowed from ACD canon, References to Addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-04 18:24:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 33,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Citrine/pseuds/Lilith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dead butler, an old manor house, things that go bump in the night and a Sherlock/John romance:</p><p>For an instant Sherlock regretted that they had a train to catch, but maybe it was better that they did, safer certainly.  These evenings with John were never entirely relaxing. He always had to be one step ahead, to read every flicker of expression or gesture.  The causal press of hips and shoulders as they sprawled amidst a chaos of papers, maps, mobile phones and cushions seemed to pass unnoticed. A slice of pizza lifted from John’s hand produced a scowl and a half-hearted rebuke.  If he had attempted to lick away the sauce that clung in tomato smears to John’s knuckles and the corner of his mouth the reaction would have been explosive though.</p><p>Outrage. Apprehension. Even embarrassment. Sherlock could imagine it all in dreary detail. John didn’t. John wasn’t.</p><p>Not gay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've borrowed various characters and plot elements from ACD's 'Musgrave Ritual' and other stories for this tale. in mixed in with a modern Sherlock/John romance.
> 
> I hope that you enjoy it and comments are always welcome.
> 
> I owe nothing except my mistakes and my imagination - no copyright infringement intended

Sherlock watched John surreptitiously. John either didn’t notice his scrutiny or he attached no significance to it. Observation was after all Sherlock’s stock in trade.

John moved to stand next to the mantelpiece. An ivory skull gleamed at his elbow, transfixed in sunlight. “The butler did it?” John’s tone was a mixture of incredulity and amusement.

Sherlock’s lips twitched into a lopsided smile, but their client looked sheepish.

“I’m rather afraid that he did,” said Reginald Musgrave.

“What exactly did he do? Aside from getting himself killed of course,” asked Sherlock. A pencil danced impatiently through his fingers.   If this didn’t get very interesting very soon he was going to show The Honourable Reginald the door and Mycroft could bitch all he liked about it. He certainly didn’t owe his brother any favours.

Reginald Musgrave seemed to shrink back into the armchair. John’s chair as it happened and it looked so much better with John in it. “That’s what I didn’t tell the police. It’s a little delicate, you see.”

“No, I don’t see, you’ve waffled on about your dead butler, but you’ve told me precious little else, so either get on with it or get out.”

 “Sherlock!” John looked apologetically at their visitor. “Sorry, he’s not always this rude.”

“Oh, he knows that I am.  Reggie knew me when I was living in Montague Street with Mycroft.”  Sherlock was rather proud of the way he made ‘Reggie’ sound like an insult. Musgrave had always hated the derivative.

“Reginald, please,” he said tightly. Now there was a man swallowing his aristocratic pride.

“Mycroft…Montague Street?” said John and Sherlock knew he'd file those titbits away for a later investigation of his own.

“Mycroft let Sherlock sleep on his sofa when he didn’t have anywhere else to go,” said Reginald.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow and waited for him to realise that telling tales out of school wasn’t a good idea if he wanted his help. John was intrigued though, which was good. Sherlock liked to be fascinating.

“Anyway, as I’ve already told you Brunton had been with me for years and I thought he was completely trustworthy.” Reginald paused. “Although he did come to Hurlstone under something of a cloud…”

“Explain,” snapped Sherlock.

“He was a teacher before, but there was an incident involving a female pupil and he was sacked. Not that…well, she wasn’t a child, nearly eighteen and more than willing from what I understood.”

“Is that what Brunton told you?” This was John at his cynical, disbelieving best.  All sharp corners that Sherlock wanted to smooth out and nobody’s fool either.

“I made inquiries,” said Reginald indignantly. “The headmaster said that the girl was quite frankly a tart.”

“Oh, that’s all right then,” said John.  He gave Sherlock a look which conveyed his true opinion of the situation and of Reginald.

Sherlock tried not to laugh. “Tell me exactly what happened on Tuesday night.” 

Reginald cleared his thin throat with an irritating cough. “I couldn’t sleep, too much coffee I think, and I didn’t want to wake Stella. Stella’s my fiancé by the way-”

“Ah, yes, of course, Stella,” said Sherlock pointedly.

Reginald swallowed heavily. “So I went down to the library for my iPad and there was Brunton, bold as brass drinking my whisky and looking at my computer, at my private files. I sacked him on the spot and told him that he could jolly well leave there and then, but he asked for a week’s grace to find accommodation and the such like, and I relented.  When he went missing three days later I thought at first that he’d decided to sneak away early.”

“Who found the body?” asked Sherlock.

“I told you Stella noticed that the cellar door was open. It’s always locked, you see, we keep some rather valuable vintages down there.  We went down together and I saw Brunton’s scarf tied to the old metal ring on the trapdoor that leads to the priest’s hole. Stella and I dragged the stone up and there he was, dead, disfigured… it was quite ghastly.  Obviously we called the police and the authorities soon decided that it was a tragic accident. Death by misadventure.”

“So why come to Sherlock?” asked John, “and what was it that you didn’t tell the police?”

Reginald’s pale eyes skitted to him and back to Sherlock. “As I said it’s delicate, I’d rather keep it as confidential as possible.”

“John is my blogger, my right hand man.” Sherlock steepled his fingers. “You can tell us both about this ‘delicate matter’ or you can leave.” He waited for Reginald to realise that he wouldn’t relent. “So which one is it to be?”

Reginald sighed defeatedly. “I discovered shortly after Brunton’s death that an item of jewellery had gone missing, a necklace worth a considerable sum of money. The necklace wasn’t insured and I didn’t feel able to report the theft to the police.  There might have been awkward questions about how it came into my family, if you see what I mean.”

“It was nicked?” asked John bluntly.

Reginald fairly bristled with indignation. “It was a gift to my grandfather from a grateful prisoner.”

“Prisoner?” Sherlock let the word fall into the conversation with an unspoken twist of knowledge behind it.  He was sure that he knew where this was going. Why did people have to be so predictable and dull?  He tilted his head back as if searching for a half-remembered fact. “Wasn’t your grandfather an army officer?”

“Yes, he was a colonel in the 48th Devonshire regiment.” Reginald gripped the arms of John’s chair and flung himself into his confession. “He was stationed in Northern Germany at the end of the war, in command of a holding camp for German officers suspected of war crimes.  It was there that he…obtained the necklace.”

“Nazi loot, probably stolen from some poor sod who ended up in the gas chamber,” said John disgustedly.

“A bribe,” said Sherlock. “One which Brunton took and hid shortly before his death.”

Reginald nodded eagerly. “Stella and I have torn the house apart, but there’s no trace of it anywhere. I didn’t know what to do and then I thought of you.”

“Think again,” retorted John.  He noticed Sherlock’s expression. “Oh, come on, you’re surely not going to take the case, are you?”

Sherlock shrugged elegantly. “Why not? I’ve not got anything else to do at the moment.” He fixed Reginald with an eagle-eyed glare. “Fifteen percent of the necklace’s value if I recover it and all our expenses paid either way.”

“Fifteen?” squeaked Reginald. “That’s a lot of money.”

Sherlock smiled. “I’m worth it.”  He rose to his feet and clapped John on the shoulder. “Even John has his uses on occasion. We’ll be down this evening on the last train, you can meet us at the station.” He pointed at the door. “That’s the way out, down to the street and keep going. I’d offer to give your regards to Mycroft, but I’m not speaking to him at the moment.”

*

“What the hell was that all about?” demanded John.  “Why should you care whether he finds his stolen treasure? There’s no mystery in it and I’ve never known you take a case just for the money.”

“No mystery? I’m ashamed of you, John.”  Sherlock whirled past him and dumped himself down on the sofa. “Firstly, there’s the small matter of an unsolved murder which has already been declared to be an accidental death and you know how I love to prove the authorities wrong.  Secondly, why does Reginald assume that it was Brunton who took the necklace? Where’s his evidence? Thirdly-”

“Okay, okay, just slow down.”  John held his hands up. “Enough okay? Firstly, no one, apart from you, has suggested that Brunton was murdered. Secondly, it seems obvious to me that Brunton stole the necklace.  He’d already got the push and he might even have known that Reginald couldn’t report the crime.”

Sherlock put his feet up and crossed his legs at the ankle. This was going to be fun. “All right, so how did he end up down in the priest’s hole?”

“He was searching for a place to hide the necklace and the trapdoor closed on him.”

Game, set and match. “So why didn’t Reginald find the necklace on his body?”

“I don’t know,” admitted John after a moment. “Budge up, will you?” When Sherlock put his feet down John sat in the space he had vacated.  “Suppose Reginald did find…Oh, forget it, there’d be no point in him involving you if he’d already recovered the necklace.  Okay, try this one, Brunton stashes the necklace somewhere and then goes in search of a safer hiding place. He discovers the priest’s hole, gets trapped and suffocates, which would explain why Reginald didn’t find the necklace on his body.”  John gave Sherlock a triumphant grin. “How’s that?”

It was pretty good actually, but there was something that John had overlooked.  “Almost, but not quite, the question is why did Brunton suffocate? A priest’s hole was intended to conceal a living person, it shouldn’t have been airtight.”

“I guess not, but maybe the walls shifted over time, maybe it wasn’t very well build in the first place. The police didn’t seem to think that there was anything suspicious about it.”

Sherlock made a scornful ‘humph’ sound. “It appears that the investigation was brief and perfunctory. As far as they were concerned there was no reason to suspect foul play, the autopsy didn’t turn up anything unexpected and the coroner’s inquest decided that it was accidental.”

 “It might have been,” said John. “People die in all sorts of freak accidents.”

Sherlock flopped back on the sofa. “Not this time, I’m convinced that there’s more to it than that, but I won’t know for certain until I’ve examined that trapdoor.”

“What time’s the last train to Hurlstone?”

“No idea, try national rail enquires.”

“I’ll just go online and book the tickets then, shall I?” asked John.

“Good idea, book first class Reginald can afford it.” Sherlock sounded as if he was deep in thought, but his mind had already drifted away from the case and back to those days in Montague Street. John would bring the subject up eventually, maybe on the train – 21.45 from Paddington – that he was just booking. Perhaps he would bite the bullet and tell the truth that made him vulnerable and human, or perhaps he would fob John off with a wry comment. It would depend very much on how the mood took him.

“All done, we won’t have to leave before nine, £394.00 if you’re putting it on Reginald’s bill.”  John sat down again and tucked the Union Jack cushion behind his neck. “Do you fancy a pizza before we go?”

 “You have one, I’m not hungry.”

“Which means that you’ll end up eating half of mine.”

Pizza always tasted better when it was nicked from John’s plate or even out of his greasy fingers.  Extra cheese, pepperoni, mushrooms and John.  That was Sherlock’s favourite, being hungry had nothing to do with it. Intimacy. The lazy flicker of lamplight and crap telly.  Observing. Cataloguing. Specialist subject, John Hamish Watson.

For an instant Sherlock regretted that they had a train to catch, but maybe it was better that they did, safer certainly.  These evenings with John were never entirely relaxing. He always had to be one step ahead, to read every flicker of expression or gesture.  The causal press of hips and shoulders as they sprawled amidst a chaos of papers, maps, mobile phones and cushions seemed to pass unnoticed. A slice of pizza lifted from John’s hand produced a scowl and a half-hearted rebuke.  If he had attempted to lick away the sauce that clung in tomato smears to John’s knuckles and the corner of his mouth the reaction would have been explosive though.

Outrage. Apprehension. Even embarrassment. Sherlock could imagine it all in dreary detail. John didn’t. John wasn’t.

Not gay.

And wasn’t that ironic, annoying and frustrating in every sense? It was also stupid, ridiculous and inconvenient.  How dare John turn out to be straight? There was no rhyme or reason to it as far as Sherlock could see, just an endless parade of interchangeable girlfriends.  They got underfoot, asked inane questions, and soured his mood every time he found John making breakfast for one of them with that silly ‘I got laid’ expression on his face.

“Would you make scrambled eggs for me?” demanded Sherlock.

John frowned. “You’ve just eaten half my pizza.”

“Not now, in the morning.”

“We’ll be at Hurlstone manor in the morning.” John pointed at the empty pizza carton. “I ordered peppers and mushrooms because I know you like them, isn’t that enough?”

John brought his girlfriends flowers and chocolates, but Sherlock didn’t much like either and he had enjoyed the pizza.  “I suppose so,” he said grudgingly.

“Good,” said John. He yawned. “I think I’ll have a kip on the train.”

“Why don’t you?” said Sherlock. He would stay awake, to think and to dream, and doubtless most of his imagings would involve John. Whatever had happened to married to his work?

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some odd reason Reginald thinks that Sherlock and John are a couple, so they won't mind sharing a bed, will they?

It was well gone midnight when Sherlock bundled a sleep befuddled John off the train onto a country platform.  The station was unmanned and only the dimmest of lights illuminated the brick built passageway that led to a tarmac road.  John yawned and grumbled as Sherlock steered him towards the car that waited, almost hidden under the oaks that obscured the night sky with their dense foliage.

They scrambled into the back seat. Musgrave, tense, terse and tired, was civil, but monosyllabic.  Sherlock was glad that he didn’t have to make conversation.   He gazed out of the window, into a black vista; impressionistic shapes of hills, crags and valleys flashed past like bolting horses.   They had the dark serpent road to themselves and only once did Sherlock spy a huddle of lights in the distance.

John’s head jerked back and the movement jolted him awake. “Where are we?”

“We’re just coming up to Gilligan’s wood,” replied Reginald. “Then it’s about another half an hour’s drive.”

“Okay.” John wrapped his jacket around himself. The car was old and unheated. “Give me a nudge when we get there.”

They drove on in silence. Eyes gleamed in the night and vanished in a scattering of hooves.

“Roe deer,” said Reginald.

Sherlock, who couldn’t have dared less, didn’t bother to answer. The engine laboured uphill and the road bent back on its self at a savage angle.  Reginald took the corner badly and John slid inelegantly into Sherlock.  His eyelids flickered and Sherlock’s sharp ears picked up a sleepy swear word.  He stayed quite still, reluctant to disturb his weary companion.  There was no room to wriggle an arm free, even if he had dared to curve it around John.  Nevertheless he held his breath when John’s head dropped onto his shoulder, and it was difficult not to giggle when a snore reverberated in his ear.   Nerves. Only he didn’t ever get nervous.

“Stella’s put the two of you in the blue room,” said Reginald. He gaze skipped from their reflections in the driving mirror to the road. “The bed’s old, but I’m sure that you’ll both find it very comfortable.”

Assumptions and erroneous conclusions. Sherlock could have put him straight, so to speak, but how many times had mummy told him that it was rude to contradict one’s host?  “I’m sure it’s fine, as you may have noticed John can sleep anywhere.”

*

Anywhere it seemed, except in a 1930’s double bed with Sherlock.  John glared at it as if he expected it to split itself into two singles and scurry into opposite corners of the room.

“I’m going to tell Reginald that we’re not a couple, then he can move one of us to another room.”

“Reginald’s already gone to bed,” said Sherlock.  He plumped up a pillow and settled back. “Besides which there aren’t any other rooms.”

“Have you seen the size of this place? They must have bedrooms coming out of their ears.”  John tied his dressing gown firmly around his waist.

“None that are habitable. Why do you think that Reginald’s so desperate to recover that necklace? The upkeep of a house like this is crippling, I remember when… Anyway, most of the old family mansion is falling apart.  Reginald admitted that they only use a few rooms on this floor, the study, the library, a kitchen, two bathrooms, and three bedrooms including their own. So there are only two guest rooms, they’ve got that archaeologist couple staying in one, and this is the third.”

John wasn’t going to give in that easily. “I’ll sleep on the library sofa then.”

“They’ll only think that we’ve had a quarrel, ‘a little domestic’ as Mrs Hudson calls it,” said Sherlock. “Look,  you can explain to them all over breakfast that you’re not gay and we’re not a couple, although I’d let Reginald introduce you to Stella and the Hatherleys first.   But it’s two o’clock in the morning and I suggest that you either get into bed or grab a blanket and sleep in that armchair.”

John frowned at the well-worn leather chair. “How come I’m the one who gets to sleep in that thing?”

“You’re the one who objects to us sharing a bed.” Sherlock turned onto his side and pulled the covers up firmly around his neck. “Good-night, John.”

There was a moment of stillness, then John moved swiftly. He grabbed a pillow from the empty side of the bed and yanked off the red eiderdown. “Good-night, Sherlock,” he growled. The pillow was thrown onto the armchair and John dragged the quilt over himself.

Sherlock let him fidget himself into a more or less comfortable position before he spoke. “You’ve left the light on.”

“Why don’t you turn it off?”

“You’re nearer,” replied Sherlock.

John turned over so that he had his back to Sherlock. 

End of conversation. Sherlock pulled the blankets up over his head. He was not going to switch the light off just because John was being stubborn and stupid. They could have shared the bed quite amicably if John hadn’t got so indignant and defensive about it all.  After all it wasn’t the first time that someone had assumed that they were an item. 

“Why does everyone always think that we’re gay?” asked the lump in the chair.

Now there was a question to ponder. Sherlock rolled over onto his back. The ceiling plaster had cracked and sagged in places.  “People leapt to conclusions on the basis of first impressions without-”

John sat up, red-faced with tousled hair. “And their first impression of us is that we’re a pair of raving …that we’re a couple?”

Sherlock tried not to smile at his indignation. “I’m afraid so.  They perceive in their limited way that you and I have a chemistry and a camaraderie which implies a certain closeness. We live together and work together. We’re both unmarried and in spite of your parade of girlfriends neither of us is in a steady relationship with a woman, so we must be lovers.”

John threw back the eiderdown and padded over to the bed. He stood looking down at Sherlock. “Don’t bullshit me and don’t try to evade the question. Are you gay, yes or no?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock.

John breathed out. “Look, I suspected as much and I don’t have a problem with it, just as long as everyone realises that I’m not the same way inclined.”

“Everyone or just me?”

John seemed ill at ease. “You know that I’m straight.”

Sherlock recognised that any questioning of that assertion would only alienate John. He had already risked a declaration that could have cost him everything he held dear. “I wondered why you kept bringing all those women home.”

“I’ve wondered about some of them myself.” 

They both laughed, a ripple of warmth that washed away any awkwardness, at least for the present. Sherlock allowed himself to relax, perhaps it was going to be all right. This time.

“We’re still okay, aren’t we?” asked John.

It was an odd question, one that Sherlock might have asked if he had been willing to admit to any doubt.  “Yes, we’re fine.”

John gestured at the bed. “In that case I might crawl in after all, that chair’s a bloody nightmare. Just don’t get the wrong idea.”  The last quip was falsely bright.

“I won’t,” said Sherlock softly. He held John’s gaze until John turned away abruptly.

He gathered up the eiderdown and pillow, and dumped them both back onto the bed. John shrugged off his dressing gown and was just about to climb into bed when Sherlock pointed out that the light was still on.

John sighed wearily and went over to the light switch next to the door. “This place isn’t nearly as posh as I expected it to be.  In fact it’s a bloody dump. Most of this furniture should have gone to the tip years ago and I’ll probably break my neck tipping over the holes in the carpet on my way back over there.”

He made it in one piece, but dark was very dark. Country dark, the kind of darkness Sherlock remembered from his childhood.

“Well, it’s better than the chair.” John lay on his side facing the bay window. “Reginald’s broke, isn’t he?”

“Obviously.”

John chuckled. “He’s going to love you for that four hundred quid train fare.”

Sherlock rolled over so that he had his back to John with a wide expanse of mattress between them.  The old bedframe groaned when he stretched out, and it creaked every time John shifted position.  This was strange.  Another person, another rhythm of breath punctured by little grunting snores he knew John would deny in the morning.  Sherlock was used to sleeping alone and he was suddenly, irrationally disappointed. He hadn’t expected this uneasy discomfort, this feeling that the reality was less than the dream.

“This is nice,” said John sleepily. “Comfortable.”  He snuggled down into his pillow. “Night, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled. Truth with all her jagged edges had not repelled John.  He had not been condemned or derided for his nature, and John still trusted him enough to share a bed with him.  That had to be worth the need to make himself small on his side of the bed.  All he had to remember was not to turn or sprawl or embrace John and everything would be fine.

*

Daylight. Grey and ponderous with the threat of rain. There was a warm weight against Sherlock’s back.  “Sorry,” muttered John. He wriggled over to the edge of the bed like a snail crawling back into its shell. “I was dreaming…What time is it?”

“Twenty to seven.”  Sherlock did not add that he had woken just before six with John draped over his spine.  He felt rather than saw John stretch out beside him. There was space between them now, a careful span of cool, slightly musty air.

John yawned loudly. “Christ, it doesn’t feel as if I’ve had any sleep at all.”

“Well, you did, I heard you snoring.”

“I don’t snore,” said John predictably.

“Believe me, you do.” Sherlock rolled over so that they were facing one another. “All your girlfriends must wear earplugs.”

“They don’t wear much else.” John smirked and then his expression shifted, so that he looked uncertain and serious. “I know it’s none of my bloody business, but have you ever…tried, you know, with a girl.”

“I told you once before, girls aren’t really my area.”

“I’ll take that as a no then.”  John scrubbed his hands over his face. “I just thought that with you being you, the way you always want to know everything about everything, that you might have been curious enough to experiment.”

“How can I be sure that I don’t like girls if I’ve never had one?”  This was the edge of the precipice. “I could ask you the same thing in reverse. How can you be certain that men don’t appeal to you?  But I’m aware of my own nature, John, and if I ever slept with a woman it would be as you said, a curiosity, an experiment, one which I doubt I would ever repeat.”

“You liked Irene Adler, she fascinated you.”

“It was a fascination that would have paled very quickly had it ever been consummated. Once explored the curves of her nudity would have soon lost their appeal and as to the kind of indulgences she offered, well, I’ve never wanted those, not even from a man.”

He had succeeded in making John blush, a reddening of the skin on his cheeks and chin where last night’s stubble awaited the whirl of the electric razor.  Sherlock wanted to kiss him and did not dare to do so. It was agreed. He was and John was not, and never the twain… in the nudge of a knee or the accidental scrape of a toe on a pyjama clad calf as John moved.  “Do you want the shower first?” he asked Sherlock.

“No, you can have it.”  Sherlock closed his eyes in a fakery of sleep.

John sat up. Stillness and silent, and Sherlock knew that he was being watched. “Shit…” a long drawn out sigh of sound, then John tumbled back the bedcovers and dragged them back over Sherlock.  John gave a little sigh and there was a movement that cast a brief shadow over Sherlock as he put his dressing gown on.

“I wish…No, you’d better just go on pretending to be asleep.”  John turned away and a few seconds later Sherlock heard the bedroom door close.

He opened his eyes. There was a draft rattling in through the rotten window frame. A shiver of cold air on his face. He rolled over into the space where John had been and let his mind dwell on that intimate, almost possessive embrace. It was important not to give too much credence to it, not to think that it indicated a chink in John’s heterosexual armour. If he drank the wine of love the grapes would be bitter indeed.  


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why doesn't John just tell them that Sherlock's not his boyfriend?

John’s first thought was that Stella Stark was gorgeous. His second was that her name sounded like a 1970’s porn star and the third, almost simultaneous with the second, was that she was a he.

It was the hands that gave it away, that and a subtle something about the line of the jaw, but John was sure that Stella could pass casual inspection even in the most unforgiving of lights.  His fourth thought was that Sherlock must have known and that he was going to murder him later for not warning him.

“Hi, I’m Reginald’s fiancé.” Stella extended a perfectly manicured hand. “And you just have to be John.”

“Yes, I do, don’t I?”  It was just his rotten luck that the best looking woman he’d seen in a long time was a bloke with a firm handshake and assumedly all the other necessary attributes to match. Although   you’d never know it from that skin tight green dress he – she? - was wearing.  Short skirt, slender legs and high heels, and if you went up the other way a very impressive cleavage and a lovely face with skin tones that confirmed her delicate oriental ancestry.  “It’s, er, nice to meet you.”

Stella giggled. “Sherlock didn’t tell you, did he? The naughty boy.”  She took John’s arm. “Come and have some breakfast, Victor and Rachel are already tucking in and they’re a pair of gannets.  Did you sleep well, dearie?”

“Yeah, thanks.” John wondered if he was going to wake up in a minute.  Stern, age-blackened portraits stared down their long noses at him from the walls and most of them looked like Reginald in fancy dress.  There was a long paintbrush whoosh of damp on one wall and the carpet was even more threadbare than the one in the bedroom.  The spiral stair that wormed its way down to the basement kitchen was stone worn smooth by generations of servants.

At least the Hatherleys were refreshingly ordinary, both dressed in jeans and t-shirts, one quite definitely male and the other obviously female, and not anywhere near as glamorous as Stella.  John said hello to them both and sat down to breakfast while Stella fussed about with toast and tea.

The walls looked as if they had been recently painted a dainty lilac, but the cavernous kitchen was still gloomy and damp. It was too enmeshed in history to yield to the twenty-first century by virtue of a coat of paint.  John didn’t believe in ghosts, but there was something about this room that made him uneasy.

“What time did you get here last night?” asked Victor Hatherley. “We called it a day about one o’clock and I know you hadn’t arrived then.”

“It must have been nearer two,” said John. His stomach grumbled, reminding him that he was more interested in bacon than in conversation.  That pizza they’d eaten before they left Baker Street was only a dim and distant memory. 

Rachel looked across the table at him. “Is your boyfriend still asleep?” she asked. 

 “He’s not…” John gulped. “He’s not in bed, he’s in the shower.”  John latched onto Stella as she approached the kitchen table with a stack of plates. “Where’s Reginald this morning?”

“Oh, he is still in bed, the poor love needs his beauty sleep,” replied Stella.

Out of the corner of his eye John saw Rachel Hatherley pull a ‘doesn’t he just’ face behind Stella’s back.  John clamped down on the smile that threatened.  He had nothing to feel superior about, not now that he’d just dug himself into a very deep hole.  Why hadn’t he just said that Sherlock wasn’t his boyfriend, instead of letting them all go on believing that they were a couple?  Well, he hadn’t wanted to offend Stella and it seemed disloyal somehow now that he knew Sherlock really was gay.

“John?” said Stella.

“What? Sorry, I must be more tired than I thought.”

“That’s all right, baby.” Stella patted him on the shoulder. “Fried or scrambled?”

John opted for fried and extra bacon.  Reginald might have been hard up, but he was pleased to discover that they didn’t skimp on food. Stella explained proudly that everything was free range and organic, not that John would have cared if it had been genetically modified and irradiated.  All he had to do was eat and contribute the occasional remark to the conversation.

 Victor stood up and pulled on his donkey jacket. “I’ve got to shove or I’ll be late for work again.”

“I thought you were working here on some sort of archaeological dig?” said John.

“Rachel’s the real archaeologist,” said Victor. “I just dig trenches and do as I’m told at weekends. I’m a construction engineer by trade.”  He bent over and kissed his wife. His black beard scraped her cheek and Rachel pushed him away laughingly.  “Oh, I do wish you’d shave,” she said.

“He thinks a beard makes him look more butch,” said Stella.

The look that flickered across Victor’s face made John suspect that she had hit the nail squarely on the head. It couldn’t be easy being the only straight man around. Not that Victor was, only he didn’t know that. Maybe he ought to grow a beard as well or maybe he should just come clean and-

There was a crash, a startling explosion of sound that ripped at John’s eardrums and his nerves.  Like a roadside bomb in Afghanistan, a spray of blood and flying shrapnel. It took John a moment to realise that an old glass jar had fallen from the top of the dresser and shattered explosively when it hit the floor. There were smithereens of green glass all over the well-worn tiles. The room stank of sour vinegar and unidentifiable black vegetables were scattered everywhere.

“How the blazes did that happen?” asked Victor.

“It probably fermented and the build-up of gases caused the jar to explode,” said John. “I saw a similar case when I was a medical student.”

Rachel put her hand to her head. “I think it cut me.” 

John saw a long gush of blood on her salt and pepper hair.  He was immediately all business, but Stella shook her head mutely when he demanded a first aid kit.  

“Get me some towels then,” ordered John.

When Stella stood immobile Victor disentangled himself from his wife’s clinging hands and ran to fetch them.

The wound was deep, but not life threatening, nothing a few stitches wouldn’t fix. John was just trying to staunch the bleeding when Sherlock appeared silently at his elbow with an extensive first aid kit.  He took it gratefully. Rachel was breathing in little shocked gasps and she had gone ashen, but the bleeding had become sluggish. John cleaned and dressed the wound as quickly as he could, muttering an apology when Rachel whimpered.  

“Is she all right?” asked Victor anxiously.

“I’m fine, pet,” said Rachel stoutly before John could reply.

“Take her to A&E,” said John. “They’ll x-ray the wound and give her a full check-up, but I don’t think that there’s anything to worry about.”

“Shouldn’t we call an ambulance?” asked Stella. She stood next to Sherlock, with one hand pressed to her mouth and scarlet lipstick smeared across her fingers.

“There’s no need to bother the emergency services.” John smiled reassuringly at his patient. “You’ll be all right in the car.”

“Go with them, John,” said Sherlock. The command was softened by the sympathy he seemed to exude, but John wasn’t convinced.  He gave him a look which Sherlock met with a bland expression and just a slight quirk of an eyebrow.

“We’d appreciate if you would,” said Victor. “I’d certainly feel better if you were there to keep an eye on Rachel while I’m driving.”

“Yes, of course I’ll come.”  John would have preferred to stay put, but his conscience niggled at him and Sherlock wanted him to go the hospital with the Hatherleys.

“Thanks, mate.” Victor put his burly arm around Rachel’s shoulders. “Let’s get going, love.”

Rachel wanted her denim jacket and serviceable brown handbag, and Stella retrieved them for her from the row of brass coat hooks in the hall. Once Victor had helped Rachel into her jacket they all made their way down the brick built passageway that led to the rear quadrangle.

Reginald had parked there the previous night, but it had been bitterly cold and pitch dark. John hadn’t seen how the greying paint and plaster peeled from the outer walls. Nor how a splintered crack ran diagonally from one side of the mullion window to the other. The whole house had an air of drifting sadness and neglect. It was no wonder that Reginald had torn the place apart searching for that missing necklace.

John turned to Stella, who tottered on the gravel in her stiletto heels. “Where’s Reginald?”

“Probably still sleeping like a baby.” Stella’s apparently innocent hazel eyes had been made wider by artfully applied eye make-up.  “He suffers from insomnia and once he’s taken his pills he could sleep through an earthquake.” She giggled. “Sometimes he’s no use to a girl at all.”

“But he didn’t take his sleeping pills the night he discovered Brunton in the library?” said Sherlock.

“I suppose not. He must have forgotten.”  Stella descended on Victor and Rachel. She kissed them both on the cheek and ignored Victor’s obvious discomfort. Stella tucked a blanket around Rachel once she was seated in the back of the silver range rover. “Now take care of yourselves, sweeties.”

“I’m not kissing you good-bye,” said John in an undertone to Sherlock.

“I bet that you don’t escape from Stella though.” Sherlock stood in the arched doorway. He watched everything and everyone. “Just see what you can find out from them on the way to the hospital.”

Sherlock was right, much to his amusement and John’s consternation Stella’s determined peck on the cheek was impossible to avoid. As soon as she released him John ducked into the car next to Rachel.  He was acutely aware that his ears were burning with embarrassment.

Victor chuckled. “Stella’s a bit overwhelming, isn’t she?” He switched the engine on. “Not that I imagine that you really mind.”

John muttered something about Stella not being his type and quickly turned to Rachel, who lay back on the seat with her eyes closed. She was still very pale and John knew that he had done the right thing by coming along to hand her over to the care of the A&E department.

As they pulled away from the house he glanced back and saw that Stella had managed to snuggle into Sherlock’s side. Sherlock said something that made her laugh and to John’s surprise he put his arm around her waist.

John wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that.

*

John’s mobile phone chirruped just as they were getting out of the car at the county hospital. _Have her admitted. SH_

Now there was a tall order and no reason given of course. Rachel’s minor head injury didn’t really merit an overnight stay in hospital, but John laid on both the charm and the expertise with the pretty junior doctor and succeeded in getting her admitted for twenty-four hours for observation.

Victor decided to spend the night at a local hotel so that he could be near his wife.  John left them both in the outpatients department, waiting for Rachel to be transferred to a ward.

“Thank you.” Rachel’s gratitude made John feel guilty. She squeezed his hand. “I expect you’ll be glad to get back to Sherlock.”

“Yeah, sort of,” muttered John.

Once he had made his escape the problem of exactly how he was going to get back to Hurlstone hit him. Another lift from Reginald perhaps?   He phoned Sherlock. “Hi, firstly why have I just wasted a much needed NHS bed? And secondly it’s a long walk back.”

“If you hurry you’ll just catch the last bus, it’s a number 17 from the town square.  It stops about three miles from the manor and you can walk the rest.”

“Thanks a lot.” John was already moving towards a ‘This way to the town centre’ sign. “Can’t Reginald get the car out and at least meet me at the bus stop?”

“I’ll meet you and you can tell me what you found out from the Hatherleys.”  Sherlock paused and John heard a scraping sound in the background.  “I’ll explain everything when I see you.” 

He rang off before John could ask what the noise was, which was typical of Sherlock. He never explained everything either, well, only when he was showing off.  The rest of the time he dished out little snippets of information or expected John to follow blindly, too dazzled by his genius to ask questions.  Okay, so the man was brilliant, amazingly so, and he could still be captivated by Sherlock’s lighting fast deductions, but that was no excuse for all the cloak and dagger stuff, was it?

Still he supposed that it made life exciting. John shoved his phone into his pocket and turned his collar up.  He knew that he was smiling, grinning away to himself, for no particular reason at all.

 


	4. Chapter 4

The bus stop was a metal pole with a black and white sign half hidden among the trees. John would have missed it if Sherlock hadn’t been lounging against the fence with his eyes fixed on his smartphone. He scrambled off into ankle deep grass and the bus rattled away.

“What kind of place is it where the last bus is at eleven o’clock in the morning?” asked John. It was a question that was way down his list of things he wanted to ask Sherlock, but it seemed as good a place to start as any other. 

“There’s another at four o’clock to bring all the brats home from school, but I didn’t think that you’d want to wait that long.”  Sherlock tucked his phone back into his jacket pocket. “Let’s go and look at the village church before we head back to the house.”

“What for?”

“Gay wedding?” said Sherlock with a twinkle in his eye.

“Seriously, what for?” John fell into step beside Sherlock on the uneven footpath.  The road wound out before them in an endless echo of hills and sheep.

“Brunton used to spend a lot of time there, sketching the architecture apparently. Only I went through his room from top to bottom and there aren’t any sketches, artist’s materials yes and most of them obviously used, but no sketches of St Stephens.”

 “Were there any sketches of anything?”

“Several of the outside of Hurlstone, some landscapes and quite a few botanical drawings,” said Sherlock.

“Was he any good?”

“Yes, in a lacklustre sort of way, Stella told me that he sold some of his work to the tourists in the summer.” Sherlock’s tone implied that the artistic taste of tourists was not to be relied upon.  “I also found this, hidden in that first aid kit I gave you.” He handed John a folded rectangle of cream paper.  

John stopped to open it and saw immediately that it was a detailed sketch of a necklace, _the_ necklace he assumed. Even from the pencil drawing he could see that it was heavy, valuable and extremely beautiful.  Big diamonds cut into squares and pears surrounded by a glittering array of smaller stones. He whistled. “Very impressive.”  

“A similar one sold at Sotheby’s for thirty thousand last year.” Sherlock took Brunton’s sketch out of John’s hand. “I’m wondering if it was just a little too similar.”

John’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. “What are you driving at?”

Sherlock tapped the picture on his palm. “This is all wrong, nothing holds together.  Oh, I was convinced that Reginald was lying when he came to Baker Street, but what for and why?” Sherlock paced up and down the grass verge. “He would never win any prizes for brains, but why sprout such a load of nonsense? Why? Why? Why?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t we have a quick recap?” John sat down at the roadside.

Sherlock froze in mid-pace. “I’m not sitting down there.” He wore one of his usual expensive city suits. “Besides I want to see that church. We can recap on the way.”

John sighed wearily and hauled himself to his feet.  “All right, take it from the top.”

“You tell me, I need to hear this in simple terms from an average mind.”  Sherlock strode on. “Keep up, John.”

“I don’t know why I bloody bother.” John hurried after him.  “All right, well, my average recollection is that the butler did it.  Reginald caught him hacking into his laptop – reason unknown – and gave him the push. So Brunton nicks the necklace and gets himself killed trying to find somewhere to hide it. Reginald can’t find it and he can’t go to the police, as it was pinched in the first place, so he comes to you, Mr Genius Detective.”

Sherlock spun round. “Fine, great, wonderful! It’s all so simple. Only I’ve already said that Brunton was murdered, I’ll show you that priest’s hole later and even you’ll be able to see it in an instant.”  He waved the sketch under John’s nose. “This is a fake, a fraud. I don’t believe that it even exists.”

“So why did Brunton draw a picture of it?”

“Because he was in on it obviously.”

“In on what?” yelled John in frustration.  

There was a second’s pause and a flicker of doubt in Sherlock’s eyes. “It was a conspiracy, Brunton and Reginald, almost certainly Stella, and the Hatherleys as well I think, although I didn’t find anything when I searched their apartment.  Look at this.” He spread the drawing out on the top of a convenient fence post. “See the direction the lines are drawn in and the way the drawing’s smudged where the artist’s hand has rested on it. Only it isn’t a hand, it’s the imprint of a glove, a latex glove, and why would anyone wear latex gloves to make a sketch?”

“So they didn’t leave fingerprints?”

“Exactly, but whoever it was drew with their right hand and Brunton was left handed. Computer mouse, cup, TV remote, all in his room where a left handed person would put them. I was meant to find this, to think that Brunton drew it. Don’t they give me credit for any intelligence at all?”

“Maybe they do, maybe they thought that if they could convince the great Sherlock Holmes then they were home and dry.” John turned the sketch around. “The question is who are ‘they’?  Did a man draw this or a woman?”

“A man, just look at the size of the scuff marks on the paper.”

“Then we can exclude Rachel, which leaves us with Reginald, Victor - engineers often draw plans and things - or Stella, one of the first things I noticed about her was the size of her hands.”

Sherlock smirked. “I won’t ask what the other was.”

“Yeah, it’s amazing what you can do with some hormone pills and a bit of silicone.”  John chortled. He loved Sherlock when he was like this, all fired up and leaping to momentous, nearly always correct, conclusions.  It stirred a zest for life in him that he thought he’d lost in the aftermath of the war.  Cruel vision sliced through his enthusiasm, broken and bleeding bodies, and the thought that he could not bear it if anything happened to Sherlock.

Sherlock touched his arm. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” John stepped away. “Let’s go and look at that church.”  The village was a crescent of rooftops at the bottom of the valley and John set a steady pace towards it.  He was better now, cured, no more pills and no more therapy, and he wasn’t going to let the demons drag him down again.

The square Norman tower of the church stood solidly against the ethereal, moving clouds.  A deep red board embossed with gold letters offered a welcome and the times of services.  There was a lych-gate, an ancient arch of oak and they passed through it into a churchyard of lopsided and weathered gravestones.

“Reginald’s ancestors are buried in the church,” said Sherlock.

“They would be, not that it does them any bloody good.” Dead was dead, John had seen enough carnage to know that.

He had expected gloom and dust, but the little church was light and airy.  The stained glass windows were mostly mellow shades of amber and red, brass shone on the altar rail and there was a rare sense of peace about the place.  John sat down on one of the modern pine pews. “Let’s get our breath back for five minutes.”

Sherlock craned his neck to look into the pulpit where a vase of chrysanthemums were shedding lazy petals onto the stone floor.  He rubbed the toe of his shoe across the flagstones. “Lord Bartholomew Musgrave, 1709 – 1781, in the loving arms of the lord, previously to be found in the loving arms of the laundry maid. Apparently he had seventeen illegitimate children, as well as eleven legitimate ones.” 

“I doubt he would have approved of gay Reginald then.”

“Oh, Reginald isn’t gay.” Sherlock came back to the pew. “He knows that I am and he thinks that you are, but he’d be horrified and outraged if you were to suggest that he is.”

“His fiancé is a man, that makes him gay in my book,” said John resolutely.

“Stella, lovely, charming, feminine Stella, is a woman trapped in a man’s body and it’s that woman Reginald wants to marry.  She told me this morning that he’s going to use the money from the necklace to pay for her surgery.”

“I thought he wanted it to spend on the house,” said John.

“It wouldn’t be nearly enough to undertake a restoration on that scale.” Sherlock sat next to John with his long legs stretched out.

“So the house is buggered either way?” John yawned. “How much is that place worth?”

“In its present condition approximately two million, three on a good day.”

“If I was Reginald I’d cut my loses, flog the place, buy a decent house for about a million quid and stick the rest in the bank,” said John.

“Ah, the rational voice of the middle classes who have neither breeding nor history.” 

“That sounds like a quote from someone or something.”

“Mycroft actually.” Sherlock tilted his head back to look up at the vaulted ceiling.

“That figures.” Now that the subject of Mycroft had been raised John remembered that he still hadn’t asked Sherlock about that Montague Street business. He turned so that he sat sideways on to Sherlock.  John found himself gazing at the aristocratic column of Sherlock’s neck, at the curl of black hair around his earlobe and transfixed by the dark, raised imperfection of that little mole on his neck.  What would happen if he-

“They’ve got a raven’s nest in the rafters,” said Sherlock.

“So write to ‘Springwatch’ I don’t give a damn if they’ve got dodos in the roof.”  John sat back with a resounding thud.

Sherlock gave him a sharp look which John pretended not to see, but he was relieved when Sherlock leant forward. “The Musgrave’s are another Old Catholic family, just the sort to hide priests in holes and there is rumoured to be a tunnel that leads from this church to the house. I think that’s what Brunton was searching for when he was meant to be sketching.”

“It’d have to be a bloody long tunnel.”

“Not as the raven flies.” Sherlock stood up and banged his heel on the floor. “Crypt.”

“That’s obvious, Brunton would have thought of that.”

“Thinking and finding aren’t necessarily the same thing.” Sherlock strode over to the door that led to the vestry. “Locked.” He crouched in front of the oak and iron door. “I should be able pick it though.”

“Can’t we just ask the vicar for the key?”

“There isn’t a live in vicar, she’s shared between three parishes now.”

“She?”

Sherlock laughed. “Modern times, John. Reginald doesn’t approve either.”

“I never said that I didn’t approve.  It’s just that when I was growing up vicars were always tall, cheerful chaps with sandals and beards.”

“Not your type then? Who knows you might find a lady vicar more to your liking.”  Sherlock twisted a thin wire in the antique lock. “There, that’s got it.”

 There was a light switch at the top of the stone steps. They were shallow and smooth, worn down in the middle by generations of feet.

“You wouldn’t have thought that a crypt got so much traffic,” said John. He followed Sherlock down into the gloom, trailing his fingers along the rusty handrail as they descended.

The light from the single bulb at the bottom of the steps was choked off by the gloom, but Sherlock found another switch.  Archways ended in rough stone walls. Here and there more modern brick filled in the space between two spans of stone. There were inscriptions on the floor and three more ornate Musgrave tombs.  Unlike the sunny church above it felt damp and oppressive.  John watched Sherlock dart about, bending over a tomb before pressing his palm to the ruddy brick wall.  “These are old,” he said. “Victorian, nothing to do with Brunton at all.”  Sherlock turned about, as graceful as a dancer. “And here, somebody blew out the wall, they were great believers in dynamite. They couldn’t have found anything though and neither did Brunton.”

“Where does that get us? It’s all a big fat load of nothing.” John was suddenly fed up to the back teeth with all of this. Sod Reginald and his bloody necklace. He wanted to be back at Baker Street, sleeping in his own bed. “I suppose that we’re going to have to stay another night?”

“Of course we are, we’ve barely started and this case is turning out to be quite a puzzle.” Sherlock clapped John on the shoulder. “And you know how I love puzzles. Come on, John, aren’t you the least bit curious? Isn’t that rusty little brain of yours starting to grate into gear?”

“You’re starting to grate on me all right. Even if there is a tunnel that leads to the priest’s hole at Hurlstone-” A slow smile spread across John’s face. “Suppose Brunton gave up on the crypt and decided to find the entrance from the priest’s hole?  Then suppose that somebody didn’t want him to find it.”

“There’s hope for you yet,” said Sherlock with a smile in his eyes.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock pretends to be far more poorly than he is John has to play the part of the concerned lover.

The wine cellar at Hurlstone reminded Sherlock of home. It was not a pleasant memory.

“You could have lost our house in here,” said John.

And the walls did sweep on into dusty shadows and up to a celling lost in murkiness and grime.  The cellar was bigger than the crypt at St Stephen’s, voices and footfalls echoed in the tomb-like stillness. Yet John’s remark lightened Sherlock’s heart. He was familiar with the story, grammar school boy made good; the first in his family to go to university and Sandhurst was an incredible achievement.  John’s parents had been so very proud, far prouder than his had ever been of him.

“Our wine cellar was bigger than this,” said Sherlock, perhaps because he wanted John to ask, to know.

“You had a wine cellar? And you lived in a house like this one?”

“We lived in a castle.”

Sherlock could see John weighting that statement up before he decided that he was serious. “Right, fine, it must have been a bit draughty in the winter though.”

“It was draughty all the time.” That was one of the things Sherlock liked about John. He was never overawed by the trappings of wealth and privilege, completely unintimidated by Mycroft or Moriarty he took everything from top secret research bases to Buckingham Palace in his stride.

Sherlock knelt next to the trapdoor where Brunton’s scarf was still tied to the iron ring like a long forgotten pet. Limp and cobwebby, and very dead. He shivered.  “There’s a gap around the edge, not much, I can get my fingernail into it, but here at the corner the stone’s been chipped away, just an inch or so.”

“I doubt Brunton could have got enough air in through there.” John crouched on the opposite side of the stone slab. “He would have been using it up quicker than it was being replaced. He would have got dizzy, light-headed and short of breath. The more he banged and shouted the more of his precious reserves of air he would have consumed. Eventually he would have lost consciousness and then…” John spread his hands. “That was the easy bit in a way, once he was out cold he wouldn’t have known anything else about it.”

Sherlock nodded. “Reconstruction.  Brunton comes down here, looking for a secret door and/or for a place to hide his ill-gotten gains.  It’s difficult to get the trapdoor up on his own so he ties his scarf to it for some leverage and props it open with one of those timbers over there.” Sherlock pointed and snapped his fingers. “Pass me one, will you.”

“What did your last servant die of?”  John got the wood. “Here.”

“Thanks. Yes, look, there are scratch marks on the end of this.” Sherlock jumped up. “Scarf and pull.”  He had expected it to need effort, but he hadn’t realised it would be so difficult to get the stone to move a grudging inch or two. “This is heavier than I thought.”  He tried again, straining all his muscles.

“It isn’t going to shift,” said John, “and if you can’t do it unaided then neither could Brunton.“

Sherlock gritted his teeth, determined to prove a point.  For all his slender physique he was stronger than the average man, but the stone only gave another unwilling fraction.

“You’ll do yourself an injury in a minute,” said John sardonically.    

“All right Brunton couldn’t have pulled it up by himself.” Sherlock let the slab slam back into position. He stretched his aching spine and rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, help me then.”

They managed it between the two of them, with a lot of bad language and scraped fingers they finally got the trapdoor wedged open.  

“We could do with a torch,” said John.  There were more steps, four steep, narrow wedges of stone with a dark pit at the bottom. He leant over the top, griping the flat edge of the trap with one hand. “Brunton wouldn’t even have been able to stand up down there.”

“It depends how far it goes back.” Sherlock wrapped his hand around the wooden prop, testing its strength. “I’m going to take a look, you stay here.”

“Well, I suppose that it would be stupid for us both to go down, just be careful, okay?”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“I’ll write that on your gravestone.”  John moved aside to allow Sherlock to scramble down the steps.

It took Sherlock’s sharp eyes a few moments to adjust to the dimness. At first he thought that both the walls and the floor were made of impacted black earth. He scraped at it with his fingernails and found that there was solid stone beneath the centuries of decay.

“What can you see?” asked John.

“Not much, you may have been right about that torch.” Sherlock kept his hand flat on the wall and took a few steps forward.  “Stella said that they found one on Brunton, which means that wasn’t the first time he’d been down here.”  He bent down and ran his hand over the wet earth. “There’s water coming in from somewhere.”

“Underground stream? Burst pipe?”

“It could be either.” Sherlock licked his finger. “Peaty and acid, it’s probably a stream.”  His fingers encountered a rough edge and slid down an even wetter surface. “There’s a drop here.” He found a loose pebble and threw it down. It landed with a faint splash and he could smell the stagnant water it stirred up. “It isn’t that deep though.”

“It stinks,” said John.

Sherlock twisted around until his feet rested on the edge and then he lowered himself over it. Water lapped unseen around his ankles, icy and foul.  He straightened up carefully and found that he could stand almost upright. John would be able to do so, as would Brunton who had been only a bit taller than John.

“Well?” said John impatiently.

“Reginald said they searched down here, but even with a torch it’d be difficult to see probably. You’d need arc lights and a lot of shovels.”

“Perhaps he borrowed them from Rachel’s archaeological dig,” suggested John. 

“I thought of that,” replied Sherlock who hadn’t. The smell of the water had started to make him feel heady and queasy. “There’s nothing else I can do grubbing around here in the dark.” 

He had to crawl and wiggle his way back to the steps, and by the time he reached them he had started to feel decidedly odd.  Sherlock shook his head to clear it. “Give me a hand, will you?”

The darkness wavered around him. Then he felt a firm grip around his wrist. “Come on,” said John. “Let’s get you out of there.”

Another sickening wave of blackness rushed over him. The next thing Sherlock knew he was on his hands and knees on the cellar floor

John’s hand rested between his shoulder blades. “Are you going to throw up?” he asked.

Sherlock shook his head, determined not to although his stomach was churning.  He sagged back against the wall and eyed the still open trapdoor with distaste. John followed the direction of his gaze and kicked the prop away.  The resounding crash went through Sherlock’s head in a blaze of pain. “John!”

“Sorry,” said John. “I think you need some fresh air.”

Sherlock might have agreed with him, but his legs were as weak as a half-drowned kitten. The stairs up to the kitchen were a momentous climb.  When he stopped and swayed John put his arm around his waist.  He raised an eyebrow and John smiled sheepishly. “Purely medicinal.”

“You try telling Stella that.”  There was a sour metallic taste in his mouth and he had the worse of headaches.

They tried to escape into the summer house, but Stella caught them in the portrait gallery. Then it was back into the library where she could fuss and comfort.  A green and yellow blanket which was lurid enough to make anyone feel sick was tucked around Sherlock’s shoulders. Stella switched on the electric heater and bustled off to make tea.

“Strong and sweet, that’s good for shock, isn’t it, John?” She asked.

“So they say.” John had retreated to the window seat. “It certainly won’t do him any harm, and a couple of paracetamol if you have them.”

“Reginald takes them for his heads. He does suffer, the poor dear.” Stella patted Sherlock’s shoulder. “Back in a thrice, sweetie.”

“I suggest you make a quick recovery,” said John when she’d gone, “otherwise she’ll be tucking you up in bed, unless of course you’d like that.”

Sherlock smiled. “I’m spoken for, remember?”

“I don’t think Stella’s the type to let a little thing like that worry her.”  John weaved his way between tables and shelves stacked high with haphazard piles of dog-eared books. “How are you feeling now?”

“Better, much better.” Sherlock heard footsteps in the hallway. “Play it up, pretend that I’m worse than I am.”

John was about to ask why when the door opened and Stella came in with Reginald on her heels. Sherlock’s immediate thought was that Reginald looked far unhealthier than he felt.  A nervous twitch in his right hand and fingernails bitten down to the quick.  Mousey hair hastily and badly combed. A patch of stubble under his chin, just above the anxious bob of his Adam’s apple.  Any fool could see that the man was an emotional wreck.

“How are you, Sherlock?” he asked anxiously.

“Not too bad.”  He gripped the chair arms and sat up with a great show of effort. “Is that my tea, Stella?”

“Of course it is, lovie.” Stella slid past Reginald and put the cup down on a circular rosewood table next to Sherlock. She patted him on the knee. “I brought your pills as well.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock flopped back in the chair and gave her a wan smile.

Reginald turned to John. “He will be all right, won’t he? I just can’t believe it, firstly poor Rachel and now this. It’s simply too much for one to take in. Do you think that we should send for a doctor?”

“I am a doctor,” said John. “If I wasn’t I’d certainly insist that Sherlock saw one, the air down there was foul and he’s still not right, however much of a brave face he tries to put on it.”

“I’m fine,” said Sherlock weakly. “I’ve just got a headache.”  He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. “I’ll be perfectly all right once it stops banging and thumping. It’s just making me feel at bit sickly and dizzy at the moment.” Through heavy lidded eyes he saw John give Reginald a ‘I told you so’ look. Then his view was blocked by a silicone bosom.

“Poor baby.” Stella nearly suffocated him with the strength of her hug. She kissed the crown of his head. “Perhaps you ought to have a little lie down.”

Sherlock hesitated. “I don’t know.” He leant against her as if he were exhausted. “I don’t want to make a fuss.”

 “Well, I think it’s a good idea.”  John came over to Sherlock, ousting Stella with a flinty stare.  She gave ground reluctantly, ruffling Sherlock’s hair as she departed. 

Sherlock’s irritation was blunted by seeing John play the part of the concerned lover and he had to admit that he did it rather well.  He was coaxed into swallowing the paracetamol and bullied into having his temperature taken with the thermometer John had insisted that Stella provide.

“38.1, that’s not good.” John shook the thermometer out before either Reginald or Stella could see it. He rested his hand on Sherlock’s forehead for a moment. “I think that I should get you get you into bed.”

“I’ll bet it’s not the first time you’ve heard him say that, baby,” said Stella, but the quip fell flat.

“Oh, I’ve heard it once or twice,” replied Sherlock with a faint smirk.

Stella smiled, ignoring John’s glare and Reginald’s disapproving look.

“Come on then.”  John put his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and he shuffled to the edge of the chair with every show of weakness.  He let his head loll against John and slipped his arm around John’s waist as he rose unsteadily to his feet.

“Take it slowly now,” said John.

 “I’m fine,” said Sherlock, but he made it clear that he was leaning on John as they negotiated their way to the library door.

Once they were out in the hallway John looked at Sherlock with a question in his eyes. Sherlock shook his head and jerked his thumb in the direction of the library.

“Don’t look so worried,” he said a trifle too loudly. “I’ll be all right, especially when you’re being so sweet to me.”  He pursed his lips and made a kissing sound.

“You’re so fucking dead,” John hissed under his breath and Sherlock almost ruined the entire performance by laughing.

He winked at John. “Whatever would I do without you, love?”

“You’ll find out in a bloody minute,” muttered John darkly, but he was also trying not to giggle. “Let’s get you all tucked up, you’ll be as right as rain once you’ve had a nice sleep.”

They both heard a movement on the other side of the library door.  Sherlock smirked. “Oh, I hope so, I hate being such a nuisance.”

“I’m used to it,” said John.  He leant into Sherlock’s side, muffling his laughter in his shoulder.

Time to go, they moved away from the library, across the black and white chessboard hall, past the grand staircase that led to the rotting rooms above.  They made it back to their bedroom without giving the game away, but the instant John closed the door they both started to giggle helplessly,

Sherlock was acutely aware that they still had their arms around one another.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Intimate moments and awkward moments for Sherlock and John.

John realised it too because he pulled away so quickly that he banged into the chest of drawers.  “Bugger, that hurt.”  He rubbed his hip. “It’s not funny.”

Sherlock tried to keep a straight face. “It is from where I’m standing.” Almost funny, not quite, not if he dwelt on the implications, on how John had recoiled from him.  “I need you to keep Reginald and Stella busy while I search their bedroom.”

“How do I do that?” asked John.  He sat on the wooden chair next their bed. “There’s something wrong with those two. I don’t know if you could see from where you were in Stella’s cleavage, but Reginald wasn’t happy when she was all over you like that a bad rash. That may be understandable, but when you pretended to take a turn for the worse he didn’t just look worried, he looked scared stiff.”

Sherlock choose not to comment on that. He walked over to the bed and stretched out on it with his hands clasped behind his head. “Tell them that I’m resting, that you don’t think I should be disturbed.  Then push a bit, quite a lot actually, find out if Reginald did explore the priest’s hole and if he suffered any ill effects as a result.”

“All right, I can do that.” John leant forward with his hands clasped between his knees. “On one condition, you stay away from that priest’s hole.  Don’t look like that, I mean it, Sherlock.”

He could see from the resolute set of John’s jaw that the ban was unequivocal. John did care, only not the way that Sherlock wished that he did. Love was not on the agenda. He would not be fooled by that look he had glimpsed in John’s eyes when they sat in St Stephens. Nor by the arm that had twice encircled his waist today. Purely medicinal in the wine cellar and then a trick, a deceit, from which John had hastily retreated. 

Only it was a fiction John hadn’t needed to maintain once they left the library.

No, he would not be deceived by his own desires. Not again.

“We’re not doing too well, are we?” said John. “We couldn’t find the secret passage in the church or down in the cellar and you came over all peculiar, well more peculiar than you normally are.  You didn’t discover anything when you searched the Hatherley’s rooms either.”

“Nothing of any significance.” Sexy underwear, a pair of handcuffs and a bottle of vodka in the wardrobe. A bowl of lemon sherbets and some photos of Rachel’s children next to the bed.  “However, they do have a desktop computer which I want to get a proper look at.”

“Hence the hospital stay?”

“Exactly, I didn’t have a chance before with Stella hot on my trail.”

John grinned. “Stella fancies you.”

“Obviously.” It was both a complication and something that could potentially be turned to his advantage.

“Is that what you like,” blurted John, “blokes dressed as girls?”

Sherlock didn’t let his surprise show.  Yes, he had quizzed John about what kind of women he found attractive, but that had been purely in the interest of scientific research. “If I wanted a woman I would get one, I prefer a more masculine type of man.”

“Right.” John stared down at his own loosely clasped hands. “Macho, but you don’t in for any funny business, do you?”

Funny business? Clown outfits? BDSM?  Sherlock more or less told the truth.  “I don’t go in for anything. I don’t get involved. Ever. It interferes with my work.”

“Maybe you should.” John still wasn’t looking at him. “It’s not good for you to be alone all the time.”

It could have been a come on, a slightly clumsy invitation, but Sherlock knew that John didn’t mean it like that.  Yet he was still the one person Sherlock counted as a friend, the one who shared his life and his work. “I’ve not alone. I’ve got you.”

“Not in that way.” John jumped up. “I’d better get back to the library.”

*

Sherlock still lay on the bed when John came back three hours later carrying a plate of chicken sandwiches. Only now he wore pale grey pyjamas and there was a laptop perched on his knees.

“That’s not yours or mine either for that matter.” John put the plate on the bedside table. “Stella thought that you might be hungry.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I’m still trying to digest the breakfast I let her coax me into eating after you left for the hospital and the laptop belongs to Rachel.”

“I thought they had a desktop.”

“They do, this was in her car, and it’s boring, boring, boring.”  Sherlock slammed the lid down on the laptop and slung it onto the bed. “Why are people so tedious?”

“I expect they do it just to annoy you.” John moved the computer over and sat on the edge of the bed. “So you didn’t discover the key to the entire mystery then?”

Sherlock made a ‘humph’ noise and flopped back on the pillows. “What did you find out?”

“Not much,” admitted John. “You were right about Reginald, he didn’t go down into the priest’s hole, Stella did. She’s a lot tougher than she pretends to be.” He chuckled. “You could say that she’s got balls, at least until she has the operation.”

“What else?”

“Reginald’s shit scared of anything happening to you. He kept asking me if I was sure that you were going to be all right.  Stella told him to shut up about it in the end. I’d murder the bugger if he was responsible for you coming to any serious harm, but it was something of an overreaction.”

Sherlock  draped his arm over his eyes to shut out the light. “It’s not you he’s afraid of.”

“It should be,” said John grimly. “Who is he frightened of then?”

“Mycroft.”

“Okay.” John drew out each syllable of the word. “Powerful, influential, pretty well runs the country, yeah, I can understand that.”  He tucked a pillow behind his back. “Any particular reason?”

All roads led back to Montague Street. “It’s a long story.”

“It’s only a quarter to nine and I’m not tired.”

Sherlock lowered his arm. “It isn’t really that much of a long story. I was staying with Mycroft and using drugs, cocaine mostly, and I was a bit too blasé about it, needles on the coffee table and that kind of thing.  Reginald came round to see Mycroft and we had a blazing row. I was stoned at the time, but I remember calling him a snivelling, pathetic little creep. I think that was before I threw a chair at him. Anyway he phoned the police and I got arrested for possession of a class A drug and assault.”

“That’s serious stuff.” John breathed out in a long huff. “What happened?”

“I spent the night in the police cells at Marylebone Road and I was charged with drug offences. Then Mycroft stepped in, he didn’t have the power then that he has now, but he pulled every string that he could to get me released and the charge sheet wiped.”  Sherlock saw John’s expression. “You don’t approve?”

“Not entirely,” John admitted reluctantly.  “It might have been better if Mycroft had let the law take its course, tough love and all that, maybe you would have benefited from a short, sharp shock.”

Sherlock snorted derisively. “Now you sound like your father.”

“You never met my father.”

“No, but I can piece it together from all the little hints and clues that you’ve dropped.”  Sherlock levered himself into a sitting position. “You’ve met Mycroft, do you honestly think that he would have been swayed by mere sentiment?  It wasn’t a first offence and he knew what a custodial sentence would do to me.  Rules, regulations, confinement and the endless tedium of it all. I’ve have been climbing the walls in a day and cutting my wrists in two.”

“You mean that, don’t you?” John looked appalled.  “God, Sherlock…” He gripped Sherlock’s forearm. “What the hell is anyone ever supposed to do with you?”

“I don’t know.” He had wanted raw emotion from John and now he didn’t know how to cope with it. “I was relatively young and…”

“How old were you?”

“Twenty-two.”

“I bet you were bloody gorgeous, all posh and youthful.” Colour fanned into John’s face, but he didn’t lower his gaze. “It’s just as well Mycroft kept you out of prison, you wouldn’t have dared turn your back on anyone in the showers.”  John bit his lip. “I saw some of that in the army, in my professional capacity. It’s not something they put on the recruiting posters, but it happens.”

“We’re not all like that,” said Sherlock quietly.

 “Of course you’re not, it would be like saying all straight men are rapists.” John scrubbed his hand across his face. “What about Reginald?”

Sherlock had almost forgotten about him. “I’ve never found out to this day what Mycroft said or did, but I do know that Reginald’s been terrified of him ever since.”

John leant back on the headboard which creaked loudly. “He must have been pretty desperate to come to you about this necklace business then.”

Sherlock nodded. “The question is why? This isn’t just about money, there’s something else going on here.”

 “Well, we’re not going to come up with any major revelations tonight.” John glanced around the room. “It’s a shame we haven’t got a telly in here.”

Sherlock shoved Rachel’s laptop at him. “Try this, I’m going to the loo.”  He needed some space, some air, an escape from all the things that he hadn’t told John.

“Thanks.” John looked up at him. “How are you doing?”

“I’ll be fine.”

Sherlock sat for a while on the window seat in the draughty corridor, until the cool shifting air and the moon that hung in a purple velvet sky cleansed him of his demons.  Then he went back to John with his equilibrium more or less restored.

John didn’t ask where he had been for the last twenty minutes, but his return earned him a smile that verged on tender. “I braved Stella’s kitchen while you were gone to make us some tea.” 

“Thanks.” The gratitude Sherlock felt was out of all proportion to the deed.

“It’s still a bit hot, so I think I’ll get ready for bed quickly.”  John grabbed his bundled up pyjamas off the chair and headed for the bathroom.

Left his own devices Sherlock wandered over to the bed. One of Stella’s fine bone china mugs stood there, brimming with hot, sweet tea. He sipped it slowly while he waited for John to return.

Night had absorbed the gardens and it pushed against the cold, dusty window glass.  The bedroom was chilly, edged with damp and sad in its dilapidation.  Sherlock wrapped his hands around the thin china so that the dregs of warmth seeped into his long fingers.  Hours of violin practice in cold rooms, tears and frustrations, never quite as good as they hoped he would be. He might have learnt to hate the instrument, but it became his solace instead.  And the day Mycroft gave the Stradivarius back had been one of pride, of achievement.  Sherlock leant back on the headboard with a smile playing around his lips, life was not all darkness and gloom.  A soft click of a door closing and footsteps that were as familiar as his own heartbeat in the hall.

John shut the bedroom door. “It’s getting a bit parky.”  He pulled the curtains and blotted out the darkness.  “We…we’ll be warmer under the covers.”  His determination not to be embarrassed made him almost belligerent.

“Good idea.” Sherlock slid under blankets and eiderdown, and settled with a bank of pillows at his back.

“If you ever tell anyone about this I’ll throttle you.”  John took a long swig of his tea and dived into bed.

“Who would I tell, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, your latest girlfriend?” teased Sherlock.

“Don’t you dare.”  John reached for Rachel’s laptop. “I found a programme for us on the iPlayer, a Horizon documentary about cloning mammoths.”

“Why would I want to know about that?”

His indignation made John smile. “All knowledge is useful.”

“Not to me, it isn’t.” Sherlock sat back with his arms folded.

John started the programme anyway, balancing the laptop across their knees so that they could both see the screen.  He picked up the plate. “Are you sure that you don’t want a sandwich?”

“Quite sure.” It was one of the skills of a good observer to be apparently looking at one thing whilst really watching another.  Scientist, new lab coat for the telly and an artfully placed mammoth skull on the shelf.  John munching chicken and shreds of lettuce.  There was a button missing on his pyjama jacket and another sewn on with mismatched thread. 

“I’m not sure if it’s ethical,” said John, “but I can’t help thinking that it would be amazing to see a real live mammoth.”

Sherlock looked at the CGI animal walking across the tundra. “What’s amazing about it? It’s an elephant in a fur coat.”

John chuckled. “Okay, so it is, but it’s still exciting.  Cloning’s going to be part of the future whether we like it or not.”  The onscreen mammoth threw back its shaggy head and roared, before the picture switched to a frozen carcass.  “Doesn’t the science interest you at all?”

“Only if it’s relevant to my work, I don’t want my brain cluttered up with prehistoric monsters for no good reason.”  Sherlock hoped that John wouldn’t point out that mammoths were neither prehistoric nor monsters.

“Did you ever see ‘The Beast From 20.000 Fathoms’? That’s a good monster movie.”

“No.”

“I bet you’ve never seen ‘Jurassic Park’ either.” John shifted position slightly.  “I’ll have to educate you.”

He could have educated John as well, but all this was as illusory as that computer generated mammoth. Scientists chasing dreams, chasing rainbows, and hankering after things that didn’t exist outside of their imagination.

Only John wasn’t a mammoth. He was very real.  They were squashed up close so that they could both watch the programme. Sherlock could smell chicken on his breath and sweet, peppery salad. John had a new aftershave on as well, probably a discount purchase because he didn’t get his army pension for another fortnight.  He preferred John’s usual brand. Better still he’d go to Harrods and buy him something ludicrously expensive, but John would react as if he’d turned up with a copy of the Kama Sutra.

There were boundaries that he must not cross. There was a scattering of darkish hairs on the back of John’s hands and a faint scar on the right one.  His shoulder rested comfortably against Sherlock’s in a familiar slump and his solid thigh pressed into his own.  This was so very intimate, so very tantalising.

Oh hell. Don’t move. Don’t breath.

That was a mistake. His very stillness alerted John, who turned to face him.  “Are you – Oh, fuck.” It was an appropriate comment under the circumstances. John swallowed convulsively. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“You’re the one I - I’m gay and we’re in bed together. What the hell did you expect?”  Sherlock rolled over and yanked the bedclothes up over his head.

“Careful!” Sherlock heard John’s fingernails scrape the metal casing on the laptop as it started to fall. Then it whirled into silence and the mattress moved as John leant over to dump it on the floor. The headboard juddered into the wall as John fell back on the disarrayed pillows.  “Would it be easier on you if I slept somewhere else?”  he asked gently.

Sherlock had expected anger and disgust, not sorrowful concern.  It was stifling under the bedcovers. He pushed them down, but he kept his back to John. “Would you rather go?”

There was a tiny pause. “I’m all right here,” said John very quietly.

“So stay.” Sherlock tried to sound nonchalant, but he failed miserably.

“Okay.” John sighed. “Let’s get some sleep then.”  He switched the lamp off and laid down. “Don’t nick all the blankets”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” insisted John.

They settled into a silence that was almost companionable, but Sherlock knew that John was also awake and staring into the darkness.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's feelings are changing, but there's still a murder to investigate.

 “Well, yesterday was a whole load of nothing, so we can’t do much worse today,” said John.  He glanced across the veranda at Sherlock. “Who are you texting?”

“Lestrade.” Sherlock’s phone disappeared into his jacket pocket. “He owes me a favour and I want to know who bought that necklace last year.”

“Mr Anonymous Buyer, wasn’t it?”

“The auction houses are obliged by law to keep some records and the law, in the shape of Lestrade, can access those records.” Sherlock’s sharp eyes tracked a raven as it flew across the overgrown gardens.  “Let’s walk.”

“Where to?” asked John.

“Away from the house, down by the lake, somewhere I can think.”   Sherlock jumped down the steps and set off towards the dark shimmer of water.

He half expected John to stay where he was, but he abandoned the veranda to fall into step beside him.  The path was thick with weeds and heavy rhododendron flowers enclosed it from either side.   John looked up into the canopy of glossy bushes that filtered out the daylight. “Reginald should have employed a gardener instead of a butler.  What did he need Brunton for anyway? Just keeping up appearances?”

“Brunton was cheap, board and lodgings, and a thousand pounds a month cash in hand.  Calling him a butler was a face-saver for both him and Reginald, he wasn’t much more than a glorified odd job man.”

“I don’t see why Brunton would settle for that.” John dodged another overhanging branch.  “He may have blown his teaching career, but Reginald told me at dinner last night that Brunton was highly intelligent.  That he spoke several languages and that he could play the violin…well, I think Reginald was going to say better than you can, but he stopped himself just in time.”

“A lot of people can play better than I can, just ask-” Sherlock knew that his bitterness and rare self-effacement had ignited John’s curiosity.  He hastily turned the conversation around. “It suited Brunton to be here, just as it suits you to play detective when you could be earning a hundred thousand a year in general practice.”

John sighed. “A bit of locum work pays the rent, but the truth is I don’t want to be a doctor anymore. Not a coughs and colds, broken bones and sick notes type doctor anyway. That never really appealed to me, which is why I went into the army when I finished medical school.”

Sherlock gave him a quick glance. He sometimes suspected that John was almost as easily bored as he was, humdrum normality didn’t suit either of them.  “Anything for an exciting life?”

“Virtually anything.”  John hesitated. “I haven’t ever…experimented, you know.”

“Never wanted to and still don’t?” Sherlock stared at the starburst of shadows the rhododendrons were throwing onto the ground. 

“I don’t know,” whispered John. “I don’t think so.”

“But you’re not sure?” It was stupid to hope. Hadn’t he learnt his lesson long ago?

“Yes, I’m sure. And no, I’m not going to.” John pushed past him. He had sounded like a man under duress, one who had just made a decision he wasn’t entirely happy with.

Sherlock followed him down to the lake.

John was seated on a mottled bench with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. “I’m not gay. If I try to be what you want me to be it’s going to be a bloody disaster for both of us.”

Sherlock decided not to point out that a hundred percent straight man wouldn’t even contemplate a same-sex relationship.  His mobile bleeped and he ignored it.  He sat at the other end of the bench.

“Do you remember what you said to me once?” asked John suddenly. “Just after we first met, at Angelo’s, when you thought that I was asking you out? You said that you were flattered and I am, honestly I am, but it still feels odd and I just don’t fancy you.” John’s jaw was tight and tense, and he blinked rapidly with his eyes fixed on the weed choked water.

“Don’t you?” asked Sherlock quietly.

John turned his head slowly. “No.”  He reached out. His fingertips touched Sherlock’s jaw. “No.”  John’s hand slid around to cradle the nape of Sherlock’s neck and he rested his forehead on his. “Not much anyway.”

The confession was almost inaudible, but Sherlock’s heart soared higher than any raven. “Not much is a little bit good,” he ventured.

“Is it?” John sat back, but he let his hand rest casually on Sherlock’s thigh.  “Can we not do this right now? I’d rather be more private.”

Private sounded hopeful. “I’ll just see what that text was.” Sherlock frowned at his phone. “Lestrade will get to it later. I’ll say that next time he wants me to solve some conundrum for him.”

“If Greg says he’ll get around to it then he will. He won’t let you down.”  John smiled tentatively. “I’m not sure if I can say the same. I can’t promise you anything.”

“It’s all right, I’m not asking for promises.” Sherlock winked at John and stood up. “There isn’t much we can do until Lestrade checks out the auction house records, but that doesn’t mean that we can’t shake things up a bit. Actually did you pack the microscope?”

“I never leave home without it,” said John.

“In that case there is something we can do, soil, air and water samples from the priest’s hole.”

John grimaced. “I’m not happy about you going there again, not that that will stop you.”

It didn’t. They went back into the wine cellar where the trapdoor had to be hauled up all over again by brute force.  John gasped and wiped his grubby hands on the legs of his jeans. “I still say that Brunton couldn’t have done this by himself.”

“I agree with you.”  Sherlock crouched above the open trapdoor. He didn’t particularly relish the idea of descending into that foul darkness again.  “He quite definitely had an accomplice, one who left him down there to die. The question who and why? What did they have to gain from Brunton’s death?”

John thought about it. “Try this, Brunton won’t tell his accomplice what he’s done with the necklace.  The accomplice shuts him in and promises to let him out once he reveals the hiding place.  Either Brunton refuses which would take more guts than I’ve got or the accomplice double-crosses him.”  He looked hopefully at Sherlock. “How does that sound?”

“That would mean that the accomplice has the necklace, assuming that it actually exists, so it almost certainly isn’t Reginald.” Sherlock pursed his lips. “I’m still not quite convinced though. There’s something else here, something that I’m missing.” He pulled out his phone. “I’m going to remind Lestrade that he’s got a job to do and then I’m going to get those samples.”

“I guess that it’s my turn to go down there,” offered John, although he clearly wasn’t looking forward to the prospect.

“I’ll do it. Five minutes in and out, I’m quicker on my feet than you are.” Sherlock lowered himself over the edge of the pit before John could argue. If anything it smelt worse than before. “Pass me those sample bottles.”

“You are the most stubborn git I’ve ever met.”  John handed the little glass vials over. Their hands brushed as he did so, a touch that lingered for a few seconds longer than necessary. “I wasn’t chickening out in the garden.”

“I know you weren’t,” said Sherlock with a smile that was pure benediction. Perhaps it was a trick of light and shadow that made it appear as if John blushed. “We’ll grab ourselves a bottle from Reginald’s stock afterwards,” added Sherlock.

“I’d rather have a beer,” said John. He leant across and pressed his lips fleetingly to Sherlock’s forehead. “Get on with it then.”

Sherlock did, rapidly filling and sealing the vials.  He was buoyed up by that tiny kiss, but he still had a hammering headache by the time he got out of the priest’s hole.  The first bottle of wine that presented its self was tucked under his arm and they escaped to the sanctuary of their bedroom.

He examined the dusty bottle he had nicked in the daylight. The faded label wavered before his eyes, but he could just make out the vintage. “Cossart Gordon Bual Madeira 1920.”

“That’s for later, tea now and a couple more paracetamol?”

Sherlock nodded his thanks. He put the bottle on the windowsill, vowed to ignore the pain in his head and set about turning the room into a makeshift laboratory.

“God, this place is a bloody mess,” said John two hours later. “What have you got?”

Sherlock tilted his head back to ease the tension in his neck and shoulders. “The air quality’s normal for a mushy, underground cellar. Nothing harmful anyway and the soil sample is marginal, but I think that whatever’s in that seeped in from the water.” He rifled through the litter of microscope slides, nitrate and pH test strips, and other odds and ends. “It’s pretty badly contaminated, quite a high lead content and even a bit of arsenic, so I hope you didn’t make the tea with it.” He exchanged a quick smile with John. “There’s something else though, an organic compound and bacteria that I haven’t been able to identify yet.”  He turned his gaze up towards the ceiling.  “He may have never intended to kill Brunton.”

“Who didn’t?”

“The accomplice of course, he might have only meant to scare him into revealing the location of the necklace.”

“That’s what I said and you said you weren’t sure that it even existed,” John pointed out.

Sherlock waved the trivial objection aside. “Whoever it was intended to let Brunton out once they had the necklace, but by the time they came back it was too late. Get me the autopsy report on Brunton, find out if he had blisters on his ankles.”

“How am I supposed to lay my hands on that and why blisters?” asked John.

“Use your charm, I stood in that water and I’ve got them, so find out if he did. And don’t fuss.”

“I wasn’t going to,” said John indignantly. “You won’t die of a blister.”

“Brunton might have done, in a manner of speaking anyway.”  Sherlock gave John an impatient look.  “Well, go on then.”

“Yeah, I lov-” John grabbed his jacket. “I’ll see you later.”

Sherlock grinned. There was an awful lot to be said for a delightfully awkward and embarrassed John. Not that his almost remark had been meant as anything other than a sarcastic throwaway.  He told himself firmly that he didn’t believe in love and went back to his microscope, ignoring the itching in his ankles. 

*

John came back late afternoon with a smear of lager on his breath. “Well, it wasn’t easy, but I managed to get a look at the body as well, professional interest and all that.  The pathologist trained at Barts and he’s got a brother in the army medical core, so we had a long chat over a pint.  It’s no go though, Brunton had more sense than you, he wore waders.”

“And your new friend’s sure that he died of suffocation?”

“Absolutely,” said John.

Sherlock didn’t ask if John agreed with that verdict, he would soon say if he didn’t. He watched John hang his jacket on the hook behind the door. Then he stood, rubbing the back of his neck and staring out into the garden without, Sherlock suspected, actually seeing it at all. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“David, the pathologist, was telling me all about his wife and kids.”

People often opened up like that with John. Sherlock could turn on the charm to manipulate people, but John could gain information simply by only revealing the amiable, cuddly jumper part of his personality.  It was a talent Sherlock almost envied, but on this occasion it had backfired on him.  “He assumed that you were straight, asked if you had a wife or a girlfriend and now it’s bothering you.”

“A bit.” John turned so that he stood sideways on to Sherlock. “I don’t quite believe that this is even happening to me. I’ve never been attracted to men and now it all feels a bit odd, out of kilter somehow.”  He squared his shoulders. “Did you get an answer from Lestrade?”

“Ah, that’s where things get interesting.  Apparently the auction house were difficult and now I owe Lestrade a favour, but the purchaser was one Frederick Brunton.”

“Brunton? How on earth could he afford a thirty grand necklace?”

“It was over forty-four thousand once the auctioneer’s commission and VAT were added on, but this is Frederick Brunton.” Sherlock showed John a photograph of a fair-haired man. Then he produced his mobile phone with all the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. “Now take a look at the photo ID the purchaser used.” He tossed the phone across the room to John, who just managed to catch it.

It only took John a second to realise what was amiss. “That’s not Brunton, that’s Stella out of drag.” John frowned at the screen. “It seems almost strange to see her – him – in a shirt and tie.”

“Andrew Stark.”  Sherlock walked across the room and took his phone back. “When I asked her yesterday Stella said that she had lived exclusively as a woman for the last three years, but she lied.”

“If Stella - if Andrew was pretending to be Brunton who actually paid for the necklace?” asked John.

“Brunton did, the purchase was made using his debit card, which isn’t a mystery in its self. His parents were both retired head teacher who died of natural causes within six months of each other. That was two years ago and Brunton inherited the lot, including a six hundred-thousand pound house which he promptly sold. Forty-four thousand wouldn’t have been a problem.”

“Right, so Brunton bought the necklace at auction and Reginald’s story about Nazi loot is just a load of bull. In that sense you were right when you insisted that the necklace never existed.” John looked at the picture on Sherlock’s phone again. “Why didn’t Brunton complete the purchase himself? And where does Stella fit into all of this?”

Sherlock tapped the phone on his palm. “Evidently she came to some sort of arrangement with Brunton, almost certainly unknown to Reginald.”

“Do you think they were having an affair?” said John. “It could explain why Brunton stuck around after he got his inheritance. I wouldn’t be playing butler if I had that much money in the bank.”

“If they were having an affair don’t you think that it would have been apparent to me when I searched their rooms? It was a business arrangement, but what exactly was their business? Obviously a scam, even you can work that out, but the exact nature of the beast…” Sherlock chuckled, wicked and gleeful. “I think that I shall be rather nice to Stella at dinner tonight, absolutely charming in fact.”

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

Stella was painting Sherlock’s fingernails a vibrant purple to match the colour of his shirt.  They sat apart from the others in the musky old library with their dark heads close together.  John watched, surreptitiously. He was partly amazed that Sherlock would let Stella take such liberties even in the interest of being ‘charming’ and partly amused by Reginald’s green-eyed irritation.  Reginald kept squirming around in his armchair, casting covetous glances over his shoulder and paying hardly any attention to the conversation he was meant to be having with John and the Hatherleys.

They had returned mid-afternoon.  Rachel seemed to be fully recovered and she tried hard to chat to a distracted Reginald. Eventually she gave up and turned to John. “You don’t mind the improvised beauty session, do you?”

“No, I’m not the jealous type, besides they’re only having a bit of fun.”

They made an attractive couple though, especially when they had performed that impromptu tango around the entrance hall earlier. Obviously another of Sherlock’s hidden talents. “I didn’t know you could dance,” John had whispered when they had a snatched moment alone.  Sherlock had smiled, dazzling and triumphant, and offered to dance with him. “Don’t you bloody dare,” John had muttered darkly. The smirk on Sherlock’s handsome face had warned John that he would have accepted the dare if he hadn’t been so busy beguiling Stella.

 “Nor mine,” said Rachel and John realised belatedly that Victor had commented that getting his nails done wasn’t his idea of fun.  She smiled at John. “I’m afraid that I’m just not the girly type.”

Stella looked up. “Don’t worry, lovely, I’m girl enough for all of us.” She patted Sherlock’s hand. “There, we’re done, you can go and show John. Just don’t smudge it before it’s dry or I’ll be very cross with you.”

“I wouldn’t want that, would I?” said Sherlock flirtatiously. He pushed his chair back with the flat of his hand. 

“Not if you know what’s good for you.” Stella giggled. “You’re not too big for a spanking.”

“He should be so lucky.” Victor’s board face was alight with genial amusement.

“So should you, dearie.” Stella swept her paraphernalia back into her floral make-up bag.

“I am.” Victor put his arm around Rachel. “I’ve got my missus back.”

Stella looked at Sherlock. “Aren’t they just adorable?”

He smiled at her, but refrained from answering. Sherlock crossed the room and perched on the arm of John’s chair. John looked down at Sherlock’s hand. His nails were very purple and they made his fingers look longer than normal. It was rather disconcerting.

“Well, do you like it, John?” Stella sat next to a very grumpy looking Reginald.

“It’s different,” said John diplomatically.

“Reggie won’t let me paint his nails.” Stella patted Reginald’s cheek. “He thinks it’s too feminine.”

“I suppose that I was brought up to think that cosmetics were only for women,” said Reginald stiffly.

No one pointed out that Stella wasn’t actually a woman. Rachel broke the rather awkward silence. “Well, I never bother with them. There doesn’t seem much point when you spend most of your time grubbing around in the mud. My usual work uniform is old jeans, t-shirts and Dr Martens.”

Victor kissed his wife. “They look good on you.”

John glanced up at Sherlock. He was unusually quiet.  He realised that Sherlock’s dark eyes were fixed on Stella.  A sharp dagger of jealousy cut into John, surely this was taking ‘charming’ a step too far? “Are you all right up there?”

 “Fine.” Sherlock squeezed John’s shoulder.

Suddenly territorial John interlaced his fingers with Sherlock’s.  He felt a momentary tension in the hand beneath his own. It was nice to know that he could surprise him on occasion.

Stella had wedged herself into the crescent of Reginald’s arm but he still looked fed-up. She shot him an icy look which he pretended not to see. Stella sat up and tucked her shoulder-length hair back behind her ears. “Rachel thinks that I’m too fussy and girly.  She doesn’t approve of my changing my gender, do you, sweetie?”

Rachel met Stella’s challenge head on. “You don’t have to be flappy and pretty, and dependant on a man to be a woman. As to the gender thing why should you have apply for a certificate to prove that you’re female? Why does it even matter? It’s 2012.  Yon and Reginald should be able to get married without that being necessary.”

 “Unfortunately it is though.” John looked across at Stella. “Have you got a date fixed for the recognition hearing?”

“Not yet, I’m going to have my surgery first.” Stella turned to Rachel with a brittle smile. “Then I’ll be more of a woman than you are, dearie.”

“You’ll be a tranny with a plastic cunt as well as a complete cow.”  Rachel pushed past Reginald and slammed out of the room.

“Rachel!” Victor was shocked and amazed.

“Bitch!” cried Stella almost simultaneously,

Even the dour Reginald had been galvanised into action. He jumped up. “This is outrageous, one simply can’t tolerate-“

“I’m sorry,” Victor cut across him. “I don’t know what’s got into her, Rachel’s never rude to anyone.” He looked imploringly at John. “Maybe the head injury’s having a bad effect?”

“Possibly,” said John, although he didn’t believe it.  He glanced up at Sherlock and saw that a smile was tugging at the corners of his mouth. John immediately saw the funny side of it all and lowered his head to hide his smirk.

Reginald seemed uncertain. “If…well, if it’s medical, but it was most uncalled for, unforgivably rude, you will have to speak to her most sternly, Victor.”

“Is that it?” Stella demanded of him. “She insults me in front of our guests and you just…” Stella started to snuffle. She hid her perfectly made-up face in her masculine hands.  Reginald tried to embrace her, but she pulled away from him.

“Don’t, Stella…” Reginald patted her shoulder and she jerked away from his touch. He looked helplessly at her bowed back. He faced Victor. “I must insist that Rachel apologies for her outburst, otherwise one may have to consider terminating your tenancy.”

“Only if one is sure that one doesn’t need the rent money,” said Sherlock laconically.  He rose from the chair and tilted Stella chin upwards. “If you’re going to fake tears at least try to smudge your mascara.”

Stella slapped his hand away. “You pig, I thought you were my friend.”

“I don’t have friends, merely acquaintances and clients, of which you are the latter.”

For an instant John thought that he saw the glint of real tears in Stella’s eyes then she turned to Reginald with her hands outstretched beseechingly.  “Are you going to let him insult me as well?”

“He is if he wants me to find Brunton’s necklace,” said Sherlock.

“Stella’s more important to me than anything,” declared Reginald. “If…if you’re going to be unpleasant to her, then I…I…”

“Oh, for god’s sake, I’m going to see if my wife’s all right.” Victor strode towards the door. “And I’m going to see if I can persuade her to move in a flat in town. We could get a decent place for what we pay you for a couple of rooms in this mausoleum.”

John had thought that Rachel could slam doors, but Victor made the ornaments shake on their mahogany shelves.  The echo throbbed into silence. Almost silence. John heard it again, that faint scraping sound that he’d heard in the kitchen just before Rachel’s accident. “Have you got rats?”

“You’re a rat,” Stella told Sherlock, but there was a hint of amusement beneath her ire.

That only seemed to infuriate Reginald. The way he looked at Stella didn’t bode well for their marriage.  A mixture of anger and contempt strengthened his features, making him look more like his grim faced ancestors.  “Must you always behave as if you belong in the gutter, flirting with every man you meet no matter how poorly they treat you?”

 “Don’t be silly, I wasn’t-” 

“Yes, you were and with him.”   The depth of Reginald’s bitterness and hatred stunned John, but Sherlock remained impassive.  “He’s a bloody scoundrel, a thief and a liar, a junkie, and-”

“Shut up,” said John quietly.

Reginald faltered, but resentment made him reckless.  “I’ll speak as I choose, especially in my own house.  Either you’ve been beguiled by a handsome face or you’re as corrupt and immoral as he is.”

“Leave John out of this.” Sherlock stepped forward so that he and Reginald stood toe to toe. “This is between us and Mycroft of course. Whatever did he do to frighten you so badly all those years ago?”

“Why don’t you phone him and ask him?” said John flatly. He offered his mobile to Sherlock.  A solid and obvious gesture of support since Sherlock had his own phone to hand.

“Can’t we be nice, boys?” pleaded Stella, but no one was listening to her.

Reginald’s nerve was skidding and breaking as the thin ice of his resolve gave way.  “I’m sorry. I’m overwrought, everything’s been so difficult lately and one doesn’t…” He rubbed his temple. “It’s simply too much.  Please, Sherlock, can’t we just let bygones be bygones, whatever I said to Victor-”

“Victor?” John immediately looked at the library door.

“Not that Victor,” said Sherlock icily.  “Only I never knew until now that this snivelling little worm ever said anything to him.”

“I didn’t…it wasn’t that much.” Reginald was clearly terrified.

As far as John was concerned he had every reason to be frightened. This was Sherlock at his most restrained and implacable, with rage simmering beneath the surface. Whilst he was ready to thump the posh git without even knowing exactly what he had done to Sherlock.  

“What did you say to Victor?” Sherlock enunciated every word perfectly. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides.

“It was after…after that day when you were so obnoxious, that scene at the Savoy…I was angry and Mycroft…he said that your domestic circumstances…” Reginald trailed off helplessly.  He wasn’t getting any support from Stella, who looked at him scornfully.  He wrapped the rags of his courage around himself. “Think what you like, all of you, but it was no more than Sherlock deserved.  I went to see Victor and I told a few home truths, that you were an addict and a homosexual, and that you were in-”

“Enough.”  The authority and the cold fury in that one word froze Reginald’s rambling explanation. “I shall go for a walk in the gardens. No, John, you stay here.” Sherlock’s cold, clear eyes bored into Reginald. “Tomorrow I will continue with my investigations, so if you have any idea of sending me packing I suggest that you forget it.”

Sherlock didn’t slam the door on his way out, but sharp click as it closed ricocheted around the library like a gunshot.

*

John flexed his sore hand. He shouldn’t have punched Reginald like that or maybe he ought to have done it while Sherlock was still there to witness it. Either way it had felt good and there had even been a glint of amusement in Stella’s eyes as she cooed over her injured boyfriend.

Where the hell was his not-quite-boyfriend?  He shouted into the darkness. “Sherlock?” The only noise and movement came from the bend and whisper of the trees in the wind.  “Sherlock?” John knew that he had precious little chance of finding him at night in a garden that was bigger than the local park. “Where are you, you daft git?”

More silence. John moved away from the sharp edged shadows of the house. There were so many questions that he wanted to ask Sherlock, but more than anything else he wanted to be sure that he was okay.  “Sherlock?”

No answer. John went on walking, down to the lake and round to the summerhouse. The tracks through the woods were tree shrouded and black. He dare not risk them without a torch. The last thing he needed at the moment was a fractured ankle. The first rule of field craft, don’t take unnecessary risks.

And rules were made to be broken. John marched into the woods. He ignored the brambles that snatched at his calves and swore when he fell over the roots of a huge oak. Then he picked himself up and carried on, shouting until he was hoarse, but he couldn’t find Sherlock.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tale of Victor Trevor...

Sherlock lay on the bed with his hands clasped on his midriff.  He had left all the lights off and country darkness filled every nook and cranny.  There were footsteps in the hallway, tired and slightly draggy, an unconscious favouring of one leg over the other that was the legacy of John’s psychosomatic limp.  Sherlock didn’t react to the creak of the door or to John’s pause on the threshold.

“I thought you might be here, lazing about while I was traipsing around the grounds looking for you.”  John switched a lamp on. “I should have known that you’d be sulking in the dark.”   He walked across to the bed and kicked his shoes off. “Shift over then.”

Sherlock moved a mere six inches to the right to let John lie down beside him.

John let his breath out in a long, exhausted sigh.  “God, I’m knackered.”  He turned his head on the pillow so that he was gazing at Sherlock’s profile. “What’s all this Victor business then?”

Sherlock kept his gaze fixed on the shadowy darkness. “Victor Trevor and I were at university together. We were acquaintances, friends of a sort in that we could sit together for hours and never say a word to one another.   His father died during our final year and left him a fortune.  That fortune included a flat in Mayfair.  When we came down from Cambridge he asked me to share it with him – as a flatmate not a lover – and I jumped at the chance.”

“Was he good-looking this Victor?” asked John in a carefully neutral tone.

“Yes, he was also irritatingly, pointlessly straight.”

“How very inconsiderate of him,” said John with a chuckle.  He took Sherlock’s hand. “I suppose it all went pear-shaped?”

“Didn’t Reginald make that obvious?”

“Okay, don’t bite my head off.”

Sherlock flexed his fingers against John’s in silent apology and told him things he had held in silent sorrow for years.  “Eventually, but it all started out well. Victor was always cheerful, blowing his inheritance on girls, cars and champagne.  When he didn’t have a date we’d spend the evening together doing dull, mundane things, telly and take-aways…and I liked that.”

“Ordinary things take on a special significance when you’re with someone you love,” said John.

No questions, no teasing, just a quiet statement of fact. Sherlock wanted to tell him that he loved him far more than he had ever loved Victor, but the words strangled themselves in his throat.  “I think it was more of an infatuation, but it felt real at the time.”

“Then Reginald started poking his beaky nose in?”

“It was never going to go right even without that,” admitted Sherlock for the first time. “Victor wasn’t interested in me and I was a bloody mess.  I was meant to be doing a PhD, but I spent most of my time conducting my own experiments in the labs instead of going to classes.  And I’d started using cocaine, to keep me alert, keep me awake, give me a buzz at the end of a bad day.”

“Did Victor know?”

“Didn’t know and didn’t care. I wasn’t his problem and he was busy living the high life.” Sherlock moved a smidgen nearer to John. “He’d have thought that it was a laugh anyway. I went to a very exclusive, high society party with him once and cocaine was laid out alongside the canapés.”

“Bloody fools, there’s nothing clever or sophisticated about being a junkie.” John rubbed his thumb over the back of Sherlock’s hand.  “Reginald said something about a scene at the Savoy?”

“He and Mycroft knew each other from school and uni. They were both members of the Diogenes Club.  In those days Mycroft was officially something to do with the treasury.  Reginald needed a favour, like Victor he had inherited the family estate, unlike Victor he couldn’t afford the death duties.”

“Be nice to Mycroft time?”

“Very nice. Reginald had wined and dined him before, but on this occasion he invited Mycroft to dine with him at the River Restaurant and I tagged along just to annoy the supercilious prat.”

John laughed. “Reginald or Mycroft?”

“Take your pick. Maybe both, but Reginald was a wheedling toad and I wanted to punch him before the sommelier even brought the wine list.”

John cleared his throat. “I just did.”

“I know. I can feel the abrasions.” Sherlock lifted John’s hand to his lips and he was not rebuffed. “Has Reginald still got all his teeth?”

“I don’t know, maybe he’s got a spare set in the bathroom.”

Sherlock’s tension was swept away on a river of amusement. This was John and everything was going to be fine.  “I’d shot up a bit before the meal. I was completely obnoxious and ‘pathetic little creep’ was one of the nicer things I called Reginald. Quite a few expletives were thrown in along the way as well. Not surprisingly we got chucked out. Mycroft was livid and Reginald slunk away while he was reading me the riot act.  Not that I cared. I giggled all the way home and when I told Victor about it he thought it was hysterical.”  Sherlock remembered that shared, rancorous laughter with a pang of regret. “We were never that close again.”

John let go of his hand and he was for a moment foolishly bereft. Then John put his arm around his shoulders. “Go on.”

“I came home four days later, high as a kite, to find my bags packed. Victor demanded my keys and told me to get out. He wouldn’t even tell me why at first, but I persisted and he told me in no uncertain terms that he knew what I was.  Poof. Queer. Faggot.  That I’d deceived him and that he could never feel safe or comfortable around me again.”

“Safe is a funny choice of word, maybe it was himself he didn’t trust.” John slid his arm out from under Sherlock’s neck and propped himself up on one elbow. He brushed a stray strand of hair off Sherlock’s forehead. “You can be very alluring, even to a man who’s always been convinced that he’s straight.” John traced the line of Sherlock’s jaw. “Then he starts wondering, what would it be like to kiss you? He realises that his heart beats a little faster when he sees you and that he misses you far too much when you’re away. Shush, let me finish.” He laid his finger across Sherlock’s lips. “He isn’t gay. He knows that he isn’t gay, women turn him on and he’s never thought about a man in that way.”

“What is he then?” whispered Sherlock.

“Confused. Angry. Scared. And it’s all your fault, you’re the one who’s making him feel that way. So he lashes out at you, hurts you, because if he doesn’t he’s going to fall in love with you.”

Sherlock gazed steadily at John. He had projected his own feelings onto Victor Trevor, who had simply been a bigot, and drawn all the wrong conclusions. Yet it was a heartfelt speech, one that was meant to make him feel better about the whole wretched business. He reached up and touched John’s cheek. “Thank you,” he said softly.  Victor’s betrayal did seem less significant now.  The harsh pain of humiliation and rejection withered before the knowledge that John was worth ten of him.  Sherlock chuckled. “Victor got done for embezzlement and insurance fraud a few years ago, some scam or another involving a ship.  I wasn’t sorry.”

He let his hand rest on the curve of John’s neck and the pulse beneath his hand beat fast and anxious. The tip of John’s tongue flicked over his upper lip. “Is this where you kiss me and we make mad passionate love?”

“That would be nice, if somewhat clichéd.”  Sherlock traced the outline of John’s lips with his forefinger. “Unfortunately, I’m supposed to be screwing Stella in ten minutes.”

John’s face was a precious picture, a mixture of jealousy, indignation and relief.  “What?”

Sherlock sat up and wrapped his arms around his knees. “I have an assignation arranged and you will play the part of my envious, outraged lover.”  He winked. “That shouldn’t be too difficult for you, should it?”

*

In the event it wasn’t difficult at all.  Sherlock would remember ever afterwards how night had rippled through the trees throwing spectre shades onto the roof of the summer house.   He stood with Stella pressed against his chest and the glass sky above them, waiting for John. 

He arrived rather later than Sherlock was comfortable with, but he had appeared out of the darkness, an admonishing angel in check shirt and jeans.  John had spoken to Stella, quietly, calmly and with an inflexion in his voice that had filled her wide eyes with fear.

Then his gaze had flicked to Sherlock. “Sort yourself out.”  And he had zipped up, as obedient as a guilty lamb.

A tiny quirk of John’s lips almost gave the game away.  He pushed the latch into place and stood resolute with his back to the glass and cedar door.  Stella had learnt the lesson of the library. The crocodile tears that run down her cheeks lent credence to her pleas not to tell Reginald about her dalliance with Sherlock.

“It was just a bit of a flirtation, no real harm done, sweetie.” She dashed the back of her hand across her eyes, sacrificing mascara for effect. “Reggie just wouldn’t understand.”

“Why don’t you explain it all to us then?” said Sherlock.  “Dry your fake tears and tell us exactly what you and Brunton were up to.” He grasped her shoulders, tight and impersonal. “Why did Andrew Stark buy a thirty thousand pound necklace in Brunton’s name?”

“It was an expensive flirtation,” said John.

Stella glared at him. “It wasn’t a flirtation at all, Freddie wasn’t interested in me.” She pulled away from Sherlock and he let her go.  Stella walked over to where a delicate fountain sprayed water over frolicking cherubs.  “We were friends. There was n0body else to talk to when Reginald was away or snoring his head off upstairs.  So I’d go down to the kitchen and we’d have a drink and a joke together.  That’s all.”

John folded his arms. “You still haven’t answered Sherlock’s question about the necklace.”

“Why doesn’t he work it out? He’s the smart-ass detective.”  She rounded on Sherlock. “So, come on, you tell me, what was Freddie after?”

“Hurlstone,” said Sherlock. He quite enjoyed the look of surprise on both their faces.

“Yeah, that’s right.” In defeat Stella’s voice sounded rougher and more masculine.  She sat down, griping the edges of the stone bench in her hands. “So now what?”

“You tell us the truth.” Sherlock sat opposite her with a wide expanse of ferns at his back. He motioned for John to join him on the bench. “All of it.”

“I don’t know what Freddie saw in the place, but he was obsessed with it. He had plans too, big plans, tearooms, boating and fishing on the lake.” Stella gave a sad little laugh. “Murder mystery weekends, you name it and he thought of it.”

“The only problem was he didn’t own the house,” said Sherlock.

“He wanted to though, Freddie fancied himself as the lord of the manor.” Stella brushed her hair back behind her ears. “He’d inherited a shedload of money off his mum and dad, only it wasn’t enough to buy this place, not even if Reginald had been willing to sell up.  Freddie was canny though, stocks and shares, and he bought a few antiques and flogged them at a profit.  When that necklace came up for sale he asked me to dress up as Andrew and pretend to be him at the auction.”

“Why didn’t he go to London himself?” asked John.

“He didn’t want Reginald to suss him out,” replied Stella.

“And what was in it for you?” Sherlock asked her.

For the first time since he’d met her Stella looked shamefaced. “Fifteen grand for handling the auction and another twenty-five once I …once Reginald had to sell the estate for far less than it was worth to avoid bankruptcy.   All I had to do was make sure Reginald racked up a load of debts and be persuasive. It wasn’t a problem. I’m good at spending money and getting men to do what I want them to do.”

“It obviously wasn’t an ethical dilemma either,” said John drily.

“It was insurance,” responded Stella defiantly.  “Cash in the bank in case Reginald dumped me, and if he stuck with me I still didn’t see the point of hanging on here. We could take Freddie’s three-quarters of a million and buy a new house somewhere and I’d still have my nest egg.”

“You can take the boy out of Peckham, but you can’t take Peckham out of the girl,” said John.

Sherlock gave him a quick glance. “Didn’t you propose a similar solution yourself?”

“That was hypothetical. I wasn’t trying to fleece the man I was supposed to love.”

“No, you wouldn’t do anything like that to Sherlock, would you?” said Stella bitterly.  Then she half smiled. “You know something, Johnny boy, I wouldn’t either if he was my boyfriend.  You’re a lucky bastard.”

 “I know,” said John.

Sherlock decided that he was most definitely not moved or embarrassed by John’s quiet declaration.  

Stella giggled. “He’s blushing.”

Sherlock ignored her comment and John’s board grin. This was an investigation and there was no place in it for sentiment and frivolity. He stood up and walked over to Stella.  She looked up at him and in the gentle glow of the summerhouse lamps the illusion was almost perfect.  Beautiful and feminine, and far less appealing to him than John was, even if her nature had been as lovely as her face, which it most certainly was not.  He held the crumpled sketch up between his thumb and forefinger. “You drew this, didn’t you?”

“What if I did? I thought it might help convince you that Freddie had nicked the necklace  from Reginald.” Stella took the sketch and ripped it in half. “No bloody chance.”

She was right, it wasn’t important anymore, but there were still other questions he wanted answered. “Why did you and Reginald invent that puerile story about it being Nazi loot?”

“After Freddie…I knew he kept it in the house, but I couldn’t find the bloody thing.  So I told Reginald that Freddie had inherited it from his mum, you know, like it was a family heirloom or something, and that if we could find it-”

 “You could nick it,” said John. He leant back on the bench and regarded her frostily.  “Was that what you killed Brunton for?”

“I didn’t kill him.” Stella looked imploringly at Sherlock. “It must have been an accident. Freddie was always grubbing about in the attics and the basement, searching for secret passages and god knows what. “

“Oh, it was no accident.” Sherlock tilted Stella’s chin up. “Go back to Reginald and don’t tell him about our little chat, not unless you want him to know how you acquired your nest egg.”

Her desire to escape warred with her need to be sure that he and John would keep her secret, for now at least. Sherlock watched the emotions play across her face, all as transparent as the glass in the summerhouse roof. “Go,” he said.

Stella went, her heels stumbled and sunk into the wet lawn. John stood at Sherlock’s elbow and watched her unsteady progress. “I could almost feel sorry for Reginald,” he said.

“Don’t bother,” said Sherlock.  He was very aware of how close John was standing too him.

“What’s all this about Brunton wanting the house?”

“It was what he was looking at on Reginald’s laptop, plans and deeds. There were maps and charts in his room as well, carefully concealed in his books.  You asked why he stayed on here after he received his inheritance and it was a fair question, so I asked Mycroft to look into his financial affairs and-”  

“I thought you weren’t talking to Mycroft,” said John.

“I’m not. We’re communicating by text.”

“You’re like a couple of bloody kids.”  John moved around so that they were face to face, close enough for Sherlock to see the flecks of stubble below John’s jaw and all the tiny imperfections in his skin.  One tooth was very slightly crooked and those clear eyes that had latched onto his.  There was a hand on his shoulder and another on his waist, and his own arms had somehow closed around John.

Sherlock moistened his lips and tried for nonchalance. “This wasn’t part of the plan.”

“Shut up,” said John and then he kissed him.  

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The path of true love never runs smooth...especially not when someone's trying to kill you.

“Well?” asked Sherlock.

“It’s not the same as kissing a woman.” John clasped the back of Sherlock’s neck so that their foreheads were pressed together. “You taste different, feel different.”

“Good different or bad different?” asked Sherlock. John hadn’t run away from him, so it couldn’t have been too bad.

“Different different.” John raised his head. “It takes a bit of getting used to, but I like it.”   He claimed another kiss, one that was definitely less timid than the first.  Mouths opened, lips bruised on one another and their breathing was ragged when they separated.

Sherlock ran his hand down John’s neck and swiped his finger across the hollow at the base of John’s throat. “Bed?”

John gazed at him for a long moment. He nodded, firm and military. “Bed.”

They made their way back across the midnight lawn and through the arcade of cracked and smoky glass.  Sherlock looked up just in time to see a light extinguished in the room above.  It seemed that the Hatherleys were also going to bed.  The basement door was unlocked and they stumbled up the stairs hampered by their unaccustomed embrace and a multitude of kisses. Once they reached the ground floor the corridor was  dull with the cloud that seeped in at the windows led them like a wickedly enchanted road back to their bedroom.  John turned the iron key in the old lock and Sherlock chuckled at his caution.

“I don’t want a bloody audience, leave the lamp though, I might as well see what I’m getting.”

What he was getting was a man who concealed the tremor of his nerves behind a sophisticated façade. Sherlock was woefully out of practice, but at least he had some experience of this which was more than could be said for John.  Yet now John was committed to this there was no doubt or hesitation.  “Do we rip each other’s clothes off or shall we just get undressed and jump into bed?”

“Undressed, in a civilised fashion, this shirt was expensive.” Sherlock was warmed by John’s laughter and if chill damp clung to the air he didn’t notice it when he stripped off. 

They coiled metal springs in the old bed creaked and squeaked reducing them both to helpless giggles. John cupped Sherlock’s face in his hands. “It isn’t that funny,” he chortled. 

Sherlock kissed him soundly. He knew that there was a technique to this, that it was all a matter of pressure and. – “Stop that!” He wriggled away from John’s tickling hands and was pinned by a leg hooked firmly over his thigh. “That’s enough…”  They were kissing again and Sherlock caressed John’s smooth, damp back. This was not the insubstantial ghost of his fantasies. This was his beloved John. Sherlock propped himself up on his elbow and leant down until his lips touched John’s chest. Swirls of hair and the bold brown peak of a nipple.  He fastened his lips around it and paused when he felt the taunt tension in his partner.  John sighed, relaxed and buried his fingers in Sherlock’s black hair. “Go on.”

Sherlock did.  Mouth and hands dappled over skin, tracing previous unknown patterns. Triumphant was in the moment that John’s eyes drifted shut; in the little cry from wretched from his throat and in the sudden upward jerk of his hips. 

“Christ…” John breathed deeply.

Sherlock chuckled. “Good different or-”

“Just get on with it, will you?”

Sherlock felt dizzy with happiness. He ran his hand down John’s side. “I know what you like. I’ve seen those files on your laptop.”  It had the bonus of not being that much different at all, hopefully not enough to freak John out now they had come this far. After all one mouth was much the same as another. Sherlock lowered his head and John’s response was certainly very gratifying.  He shifted and gasped, burying one hand in Sherlock’s hair and twisting the other into the rumpled sheets.

It was heady and exciting.  Lust, love and affectionate amusement all combined in a surge of blood to Sherlock’s head that blurred his vision for a second.  He would have expected the blood to rush up not down, that thought made his giggles reverberate around John, who groaned in frustration. Sherlock grinned. Frowned. He recognised this feeling from his misspent youth.

John shoved violently at his shoulder. He scrambled away, seemingly unaware of the swift scrape of teeth his sudden movement caused.

“What the hell?”  Repulsion would have wounded him deeply, but the horror in John’s eyes made no sense at all. He looked as if he had just awakened from one of his worst nightmares of war and destruction.  “John?”

John scrambled away until he was huddled up against the headboard. Then he grabbed for Sherlock’s outstretched hand, almost crushing his strong fingers in his frantic grip. “God, Sherlock, we can’t just ignore him.”

“Ignore who?”

“Brunton. Can’t you hear him screaming? He’s dying down there.”  John tried to push past Sherlock.

Sherlock grabbed his shoulders. “There’s nothing-” John froze in his grip. His expression was now one of absolute terror.   He wrenched himself out of Sherlock’s grip and his hand flew to his neck. “Oh god, I’m bleeding. It’s cut my throat.”  John’s other hand clutched desperately at Sherlock. “Help me, please Sherlock, for god’s sake help me!”

For a heart-stopping instant Sherlock saw a death heralding gush of red pour through John’s white knuckles and down his chest.  It vanished and he shook John, brutal in his fear. “Stop this, John, you’re hallucinating.  There’s nothing there. Nothing.”  He tried to wrap his arms around John who struggled and whimpered in fear.

There was something though, a strange smell, a nauseating mixture of rotten vegetables and battery acid.  Smoke rose from the bedside lamp and a patch of the shade singed and bubbled.  Sherlock almost rejected the evidence of his eyes as another hallucination.  Then he knew. He flung John away from him and grabbed the base of the lamp.  His eyes burnt and his thoughts fragmented into shards of memory and illusion.  John’s frightened cries cut through the fog in his mind and he yanked on the lamp, pulling the plug out of the socket. 

Darkness raced into the room. John screamed that he had been buried alive.  Sherlock staggered. He dropped the foul smelling lamp, but the sash window wouldn’t yield. Nails. He had seen nails bashed into the rotten frame to hold it in place.  Sherlock giggled. Reginald didn’t have any money to repair it. He’d break it then and serve the miserable git right.

The chair crashed through the glass and plummeted down the brickwork.  Sherlock hurled the dead lamp after it. The air was still thick with its evil smell. John was curled up in a tight whimpering ball. Sherlock stumbled over to the bed. “Come on, we have to get out of here.”

John laughed hysterically. “We can’t, we haven’t got any clothes on.”

“That doesn’t matter.” He got his arm around John’s shoulders and dragged him off the bed. “Move. Now.”

“There’s no need to shout.” John chuckled. “Everyone’s going to think that I’m a poof. Oh, they think that anyway…” John seemed to think that was even funnier.   He swayed as if he were very drunk. “Am I still bleeding?”

“No,” said Sherlock shortly.  It was no easy task to manoeuvre John across the pitch black bedroom and he had to fight the urge to sink down onto the floor and giggle with him.

The old key was icy and solid under his hand. It spun easily in the lock and relief surged through Sherlock when the door opened. He hauled John over to the window seat, dumped him there and thrust the windows wide open.   Sherlock leant out to gulp down the frosty night air. He head was pounding and he thought that he was going to be sick all down the side of the building.

John was still chortling away to himself. “I can see your bum.” He slapped Sherlock’s bare bottom and dissolved into silly laughter.  Sherlock grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and shoved his head out of the window. “Just breathe.”

“I am breathing. I’d be dead if I wasn’t.” John gripped his own wrist and waved his hand under Sherlock’s nose. “Look, I’ve got a pulse.”

There was a noise behind them. Sherlock whirled round to see Victor standing in the hallway. He wore an old tracksuit. His hair stood up in spikes and his board feet were bare. “Are you all right?” Victor looked as if he wasn’t sure if he should beat a hasty retreat. “We heard screaming and glass breaking. I thought it might be a burglary.”

“Someone tried to kill us,” said Sherlock.

“What? You’re kidding me. Who the hell would do a thing like that?” Victor was clearly shocked “Are either of you hurt?”

“Only our pride,” muttered John. He slid back down onto the window seat. “You haven’t got a spare dressing gown have you?”

“I’ll find you a blanket or something.” Victor looked around as Rachel appeared in the shadows behind him. “Sherlock says someone tried to kill them.”

“My god!” Rachel’s hand went to her mouth. She seemed totally unfazed by the sight of their nudity, but she was clearly upset by what had happened to them. “We have to call the police.”

“Who needs the police when you’ve got Sherlock Holmes?” John grinned manically. “He’s forgotten his pants again.”

“We were drugged,” explained Sherlock. He put his hand under John’s arm and pulled him to his feet.

“We’re stoned,” added John helpfully. A residual giggle escaped him. “That’s a medical diagnosis.”

“Police and an ambulance,” said Rachel firmly.

“Neither,” said Sherlock.  He didn’t want outsiders traipsing around, destroying all the evidence, fussing and poking them about.  Whatever answers were to be gleamed from this would be found here at Hurlstone Manor, not sitting in an A&E department surrounded by fractious children and argumentative drunks.  “I’m fine. John’s fine.” 

There was a clatter of feet on the tiled floor. Stella rushed into the hall. Her hair hung loose and she wore a Chinese dressing gown, red and gold dragons on a vivid green silk.  Reginald was a pale ghost in her wake.  He stopped under the Gothic arch, but she ran straight to Sherlock.

“What happened? Are you all right?” Stella managed to hug Sherlock despite his having one arm wrapped firmly around John.  “I knew something awful was going on, but Reginald had taken his pills and I couldn’t wake the idiot up.”

“Is that necessary?” asked Reginald. He looked sleep-rumbled and irritated.

Sherlock wasn’t certain if Reginald objected to being called an idiot or to his fiancé enthusiastically hugging a naked man.  Either way his sour face made Sherlock giggle.  He pulled himself together and forbade anyone to go into their abandoned bedroom.

“Not even to get our clothes?” asked John mournfully. He was alternating between amusement and embarrassment.

“No, it’s far too dangerous.” Sherlock was sure that the danger had gone out of the window with the lamp, but a little bluff never did any harm. “Those toxic fumes could have impregnated everything, there was a lot of smoke in the air, dark and cloying, writhing like…” He shook his head. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right, pet.” Stella kissed his cheek and expensive perfume filled his nostrils. Roja Parfums, rose, jasmine and leather, a strangely androgynous fragrance that unsurprisingly suited her very well. “Let’s get you into the warm.”

Warm was the library, where Victor beat the embers of the fire into life with an iron poker. Sherlock felt John shudder beside him when the flames leapt up the huge chimney. He squeezed John’s hand. There was nothing to fear, whoever had planted the drug in their bedroom would not risk poisoning themselves. And it had to be one of these four.  Reginald who grudgingly lend them pyjamas. Practical Rachel, who still wanted to call the police. Buff and hearty Victor or Stella whose secret they knew.

She brought them blankets, thick and cosy, but with an odour of old-fashioned moth balls about them. The tea she made was strong and sweet enough to be a shock in its self, rather than a cure for fright.  Sherlock took a sip and set it aside. Stella wrapped her hands around the bone-china and swallowed some of it down before she handed it back to him. “I wouldn’t try to kill you.”

“It was too hot,” said Sherlock.

“And too sweet,” added John pointedly.  He had sobered up and was very abject.

His downcast look troubled Sherlock. He wanted to talk to John, to embrace and sooth him.  He didn’t want to listen to the inane chatter of the others, one of whom had tried to kill him. To kill John.  Dark anger rose in him.  “Get out all of you. John and I will sleep here tonight and we don’t want to be disturbed.”  He caught Stella’s eye and her leer wilted under his icy gaze. “Well, go, you morons.”

“I’m glad you appreciate our help,” said Victor.  He took Rachel’s elbow and steered her firmly towards the door. Rachel whispered something to her disgruntled husband. Victor shook his head. “I’ve had just about enough of this bloody place.”

“I know the feeling,” muttered John. He dropped his head into his hands then he flopped back on the sofa. “Have you got a headache?”

Sherlock had and his patience was wearing thin. “Leave,” he snarled at Stella and Reginald.

“You can’t order me about in my own-” Reginald started to say, but Stella cut across him. “Yes, he can.  Sherlock’s the only one who can find that necklace for us.”  She ran her arm through Reginald’s.  “We don't want any fuss or bother, do we now?”

“One supposes that…”  Reginald hesitated, crushed by his own fears of disgrace, of police involvement and above all else of Mycroft’s wrath. 

Stella squeezed his arm. “That’s all right then, isn’t it, baby?”

Sherlock studied the tiny traces of emotion in Reginald’s tired features. He was annoyed and upset, but he didn’t have the stomach for a fight.  Defeat was conceded with ill-grace, with a muttered good-night, and there was a weary drag in his step when he turned aside.

The mottled grandfather clock in the corner had long since stopped. They were left alone in a silence fractured only by flame-crackle and a soft scraping sound.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A violin and a broken dream...

They listened. It came again, an eerie echo from behind the ancient walls, like the scrabble of bony talons on unyielding stone.

“Dead men’s fingers,” whispered John. He shrugged apologetically. “Sorry, I’m making a prat of myself, aren’t I?”

Sherlock patted his hand. “No more than usual.” He half-rose from the sofa, but the unearthly noise was swallowed by silence.  Sherlock fell back into the nest of blankets. “They’ve gone now.”

“What’s gone?”

“The bats, there’s probably dozens of them roosting in these old walls.” He listen intently and heard an indistinct leathery sound. “Probably brown bats, I grew up in a dilapidated old castle and I know what a bat colony sounds like, scratching on the tower wall in the middle of the night.”  

John giggled. “Oh, I’m quite willing to believe that you had bats in your belfry.”  He finished his tea and scowled into the dregs.  “This is all very not good, Sherlock. Whoever put that substance in our room…” John shook his head. “God, I still can’t think straight.  What the hell was that stuff anyway?”

“Obviously a psychedelic drug, something broadly akin to LSD. I believe that it was a heat-activated organic derivative, but I’ll know more when I analyse the remains of that lamp.”

John grimaced. “Heat activated?”

“That table lamp had an old-fashioned incandescent light bulb in it, one that gives of heat as well as light.  Somebody smeared the drug on the lampshade and it stayed dormant until the hot bulb activated it.”

“So whoever it was wanted us out of the picture?” John bit his lip. “Permanently?”

Sherlock always claimed to trust facts and logical deductions, not instinct.  Yet he could not shake the deep-seated conviction that this had been a murder attempt. “I think so.”

“Next time one of Mycroft’s old friends wants help let’s tell him to bugger off.”  John took Sherlock’s hand. “Stella’s the obvious suspect. She stands to lose everything if we spill the beans to Reginald.”

“Hush, let me think for a minute.” Sherlock kissed John’s temple. “Mind palace.” He put his arms around John. He didn’t want him to feel abandoned. Sherlock rested his cheek on the crown of John’s head and shut his eyes.

Stella. Transsexual. Sweet Transylvania. Sweetie. Shop. Auction. House. Hurlstone. Cast first Stone. First lady. Lady of the Manor.  Manners maketh man. Surgery maketh woman. Make-up. Kiss. Judas. Who can find a virtuous woman for her price is far above rubies. Ruby. Diamond. Necklace. Neck – lace. Scarf. Burberry. Bilberry. Purple. Congested. Suffocated. Brunton.

“Shit, I’m going round in circles.”

John tried to sit up. “Maybe now’s not the time-”

Sherlock pulled him back into his arms. “Quiet.”  He focused his mind and tried again.

Brunton. Frederick. The great. Grandiose. Grand piano. Play. Practice. Violin. Bow. Present. Christmas. Violin. Violin. Violin.

“Fuck!”

This time John leant back so that he could see Sherlock’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”  There were so many things that he didn’t want to remember. This wasn’t supposed to be about him and he hadn’t expected all his old demons to resurrect themselves. “It must be that wretched drug.”

“It might be, but it didn’t seem to affect you nearly as much as it did me. You weren’t the one ranting like a lunatic about dead people screaming and…I saw it happen once in Afghanistan, a roadside bomb, a squaddie got a bit of shrapnel in his neck…I knew that he was going to bleed out.”  John’s expression forestalled any sympathy Sherlock might have offered. “I suppose it comes of you being superior to us mere mortals.”

Violin.

“I’m not…” Sherlock couldn’t quite bring himself to admit to his failure. “It was all a matter of experience and location.  Firstly, having been an addict I’ve a much higher tolerance for drugs than most people have. Why do you think I don’t like going to the dentist? Secondly, the lamp was on your side of the bed. You would have been breathing in more of the fumes right from the start and once things got underway, well, my head was a lot further away from it than yours was.”

“Don’t remind me.” John looked sheepish,, but he reached for Sherlock’s hand again. “It sort of spoilt the mood, didn’t it?” He noticed the smile dancing around Sherlock’s lips. “What are you smirking at?”

“I think that we’ve definitely convinced them all that we’re lovers.”

“Chance would a fine bloody thing,” said John ruefully. He tapped the sofa arm. “This is hardly conducive, is it?”

It certainly wasn’t, the battered Chesterfield was too narrow for them to both stretch out on it. “We’re going to have to sleep sitting up,” said Sherlock, “but not just yet. Let’s give it another half an hour and then, once we’re sure everyone else is asleep, then I’m going outside to gather up the pieces of that lamp for analysis.”

“I’ll come with you,” said John in a voice that brooked no argument. “Was all that talk about our bedroom being unsafe just a load of flannel?”

Sherlock grinned. “What do you think?”

“I think I’d be a lot happier if I had my service revolver.” John looked down at himself. “And my own pyjamas, these are miles too tight and far too long, but I suppose that’d give the game away?”

“It would.” Sherlock settled back on the sofa. “Twenty-five minutes and then we’ll go.”

They fitted together, strong arms draped around shoulders and backs, heads leaning one into the other.  Sherlock felt John’s fingers carding lazily through the hair at the nape of his neck. His eyes closed and he drifted with the sensation. John’s touch slowed and his hand slid down to rest on Sherlock’s collar bone.

“We have to stay awake.” Sherlock sat up a bit, dislodging John’s sleepy head from his shoulder.

“Bugger, yeah, okay.” John yawned. “Talk to me then.”

Violin.

Sherlock buried his face in John’s hair for a few moments, gathering the rags of his courage. The truth once told could never be untold, but he had to trust that John would not think any less of him because of it.  “Your parents were proud of your achievements, weren’t they?”

“I suppose so. I don’t know how they would have taken this though.” John snuggled up to Sherlock. “Harry freaked them out enough.  They gave her a rough time after she came out, that was when her drink problem started.”

“I see.” Sherlock didn’t want to talk about John’s sister, if he was ever going to bite the bullet it had to be now; in quiet warmth in the depths of the night. “I was a bitter disappointment to my parents.”

John lifted his head and scrutinised Sherlock’s face. “Because of the drugs or because you’re gay?” he asked gently.

“The drugs eventually. They always swore that they didn’t mind about my sexuality, although mummy mourned the grandchildren she’d never have.” He brushed the back of his finger down John’s cheek. “It was the violin that broke their hearts though.”

“What?” said John and then, “tell me.”

“You think that I’m a genius and you’re right I am, but Mycroft outstripped me at every turn and not just because he was older. Cambridge at fourteen, a PhD at twenty, I was never that good, but I did have an amazing aptitude for music and for the violin in particular.”

“Good enough to make a career out of it?” guessed John.

Sherlock let his breath out in a tiny, bitter laugh. “More than good enough according to my teachers. and they were the best, no expense spared. I was going to be a virtuoso, but I had to dedicate myself to my music. There was no time for noxious scientific experiments or to spend hours immersed in true crime books. Mummy thought those things were unwholesome and unhealthy, whilst music was pure and good, the realm of the angels.”

John chuckled. “You’re no angel.”

“I certainly wasn’t then. I was always sneaking away from the practice room, but my parents were determined and so they gave me a violin, a very special violin for my sixteenth birthday.” Sherlock paused, enmeshed in the memories of that day. “It was a family heirloom, even we weren’t that rich. Mycroft described it as the most expensive guilt trip in history.”

“What was it, a bloody Stradivarius or something?” John was only half-joking.

“Haven’t you ever noticed? You’ve seen it often enough.” Sometimes even John could astonish him with his lack of observation.

“What?” John sat bolt upright. “That violin you’ve got at home, the one that lies on the coffee table and gets buried under piles of paper, that’s a Stradivarius?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock calmly.

“It must be worth millions, more than the house, more than the entire bloody street. We haven’t even got a burglar alarm!”

Sherlock was thoroughly irritated, here he was trying to bare his soul and John was rattling on about home security like a suburban housewife.  “Don’t be so mundane and middle-class. This isn’t about burglar alarms.”

“Sorry.” John kissed him tenderly. “What about your mum and dad?”

“I told you they were disappointed in me.” Sherlock tilted his head back, avoiding John’s concerned gaze. “Eventually even mummy was forced to admit that I didn’t have the interest or the self-discipline to become a professional violinist.”

“And they didn’t think that consulting detective was an ideal profession for their son?” said John.

Sherlock snorted. “Very far from it.  Anyway, I went to Oxbridge, good enough for most parents, but it wasn’t the Royal College of Music or the Sorbonne.  I kept the violin though and it was one of the things Victor had piled up in the hallway for me the night he threw me out.”

“So you took it with you to Mycroft’s?”

“Not exactly.” Sherlock leant into John’s side, so that they were pressed solidly and warmly together under the blankets. “There was no way that I was going to go crawling to Mycroft. I didn’t need him or Victor or anyone else.  So I checked into a hotel. I had cash and a credit card so the bill wasn’t a problem at first, but my habit didn’t come cheap. I was broke in a month, so one day when I was stoned I had a brilliant idea, why not sell the Stradivarius?”

John sighed. “What did you do, try to flog it at the local flea market?”

“I was stoned, not stupid.” Sherlock smiled self-deprecatingly. “Well, not that stupid anyway. I took it to Sotheby’s and I’ll give you three guesses what happened when a scruffy junkie came into their hallowed halls wanting to auction a Stradivarius.”

 “They called the police?”

“Got it in one. I remember sitting in an office with a barred window and vomiting all over the carpet. There were a lot of people in and out, and then Mycroft arrived. I told him to piss off, but the next thing I knew we were in taxi on our way to Montague Street.  Mycroft took the Stradivarius and locked in a bank vault.  No matter how much I ranted and raved he was adamant that I wasn’t getting it back until he was sure that I could be trusted with it.”

“Well, it’s sitting on our sofa at home…” John smiled at Sherlock. “When did Mycroft give it back to you?”

“I didn’t see it for nearly nine years and then just after I moved into Baker Street Mycroft arrived with what he called a house-warming present.  My own violin, I was…touched, thrilled, so of course I made a scene and Mycroft left in a huff. Then it stood in a corner for six months before I started to play again.” Sherlock spread his long fingers and gazed at them dolefully. “After so many years of abstinence I wasn’t nearly as good a violinist as I had been at fifteen, but it felt right. I was delighted to have it back.”

“You ought to take better care of it then.”  John clasped Sherlock’s right hand and kissed his palm.

“It’s just an expensive lump of wood at the end of the day, other things are far more precious to me.” Sherlock kissed John’s lips. “Infinitely more precious.”

“Thanks,” said John quietly. “It’s nice to know that I’m more important than a violin.” They laughed softly.  “It’s your pride and joy though, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” whispered Sherlock. He sat forward. “The others should all be in bed by now.” He threw back the blankets. “We’ll go outside for the lamp first and then up to our bedroom to retrieve your gun and my microscope.”

“All right,” said John grimly.

They both knew that it was time to set personal feelings aside. There was work to be done.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's in love...

John finished cleaning and loading his revolver. He aimed it at the library fireplace, at the black maw where the fire had been. They had doused it with water, taking no chances with the piece of bubbled and burnt lampshade Sherlock had brought in from the garden.  The doors to the hallway were firmly closed with a chair wedged under the handle, but they had flung open all the windows. It was the dead hour of the morning, just after three o’clock with no sign of dawn and spikes of cold stabbing in through the windows.

John put the gun down on the mantelpiece. He shivered. “There’s a storm brewing.”

Sherlock, engrossed in his microscope, didn’t answer.

John pulled two blankets off the heap on the Chesterfield. He wrapped one around his shoulders and draped the other over Sherlock’s hunched back.

“Thanks.” A white hand dragged it more securely into place, but Sherlock didn’t look up.

John could have murdered a cup of tea, but he didn’t want to leave Sherlock on his own while he trekked to the kitchen. 

“I’ll be perfectly all right, go and get your tea.” Sherlock put another slide under the microscope.

“How did you – never mind, I’m not going anywhere.” John walked across to where Sherlock sat at a decrepit wooden desk.  “Any luck?”

“Ask me again in twenty minutes.” 

John folded his arms and rested his back on the nearest bookcase. There was an unpleasant whiff of mildew from the old books. He wondered how long it had been since anyone had read any of them. Some of the leather bound volumes looked positively ancient; maybe Reginald ought to check for any first editions. One had the spine inscribed in the Latin he remembered from his schooldays, but it turned out to be a dull as ditch water treatise on aqueducts and Doric columns. John shoved it back onto the shelf. “What did the Romans ever do for us?”

“Huh?”

John smiled, lovingly exasperated. “Nothing. I’ll buy you a Monty Python DVD when we get home.” He watched Sherlock work. There was nothing he could do to help at this stage, except keep quiet and try to curb his impatience.  He wanted to confront the bastard who had tried to kill them. His money was still on Stella, no matter how much she protested her innocence.  She was a conniving bitch with balls, professing undying love for Reginald while she was plotting behind his back with Brunton.  Then flirting shamelessly with Sherlock although she thought that he was Sherlock’s partner, which he was now. Well, almost. 

How the hell had that happened?

Three days ago he had been straight, but it had been a long three days.  And here he was with all his denials in tatters, giving credence to all those rumours about them.  Had other people seen something in their relationship that he had stubbornly refused to acknowledge? John had kept it simple. He wasn’t gay therefore he couldn’t possibly be in love with Sherlock.

Only he was.

Bugger.

John giggled nervously. He had better find another expletive. That one had far too many implications. Could he ever really go that far? Did he even want to?  He looked at Sherlock’s bowed head, at the musician’s fingers wrapped around the base of the microscope. At the purple shine of his fingernails which both fascinated and unsettled him.  It leant a feather-touch of androgyny to a form that was otherwise entirely masculine.

Sherlock was slender, but Reginald was a stick-insect and his pyjama jacket was too small to button properly. It clung half-undone to his chest and back, not that navy plaid was particularly sexy.  Yet the colour became him and John stepped closer. He ached to touch him.  Was this something that had lain dormant in him all along, hidden beneath the camaraderie of school and army?

“Don’t worry about it so much, you are what you are.” Sherlock pushed his chair away from the desk. “Call yourself bisexual if that’s more palatable.”

“It’s probably the nearest to the truth.”  John knew that he was attracted to women, this wasn’t going to change that. He also knew that he had no intention of cheating on Sherlock. “I’m the faithful type though.”

“We had a cocker spaniel like that once.” For a moment Sherlock was amused by his own joke and then he waved his hand at the microscope. “I could do with more equipment to enable me to make a few more tests, but this is fascinating stuff.”

“I could think of other words to describe it.”  A shiver went through John and he hoped fervently that the drug-induced hallucinations he had experienced would not resurface in his nightmares.

“It’s an old poison, John, so antiqued that I almost didn’t recognise it.”  Sherlock held a glass slide up to the light. “The compounds didn’t make sense at first, no matter how many tests I ran, but there was something, half-remembered from an old-fashioned book.”  He tossed the slide to John. “Radix pedis diabolic.”

John got his head around the translation. “Devil’s-foot root?”

“The very same.” Sherlock got up and took the slide out of John’s hand. “It’s virtually forgotten nowadays, but it wasn’t uncommon during the Victorian era. Basically it’s a powered tree root brought back from Africa by explorers in the days of empire. Devil’s-foot root is inert until it’s heated and then it becomes a powerful hallucinogenic.” He put the slide down on the desk. “It was traditionally used in shamanistic rituals in very measured doses since the tribes knew that over-exposure could result in permanent brain-damage and death.”

 “Nice stuff,” said John sarcastically.  “What’s its shelf life?”

“Oh, this could be fifty or even a hundred years old. If it had been kept air-tight it would still be potent.”

“I guess this is the type of house where something like that might lie around for a century or so.”  John looked around the cluttered library. “Lord Lucan and Shergar are probably hiding somewhere under all this junk.” His gaze went to the brown smear on the glass slide. “I’d say this makes Reginald the most likely suspect, but I don’t think that he’d have the guts to do it.”

“Murder at one remove is often the modus-operandi of the coward, but Reginald has nothing to gain from our deaths, quite the reverse considering that he has pinned all his hopes on us finding Brunton’s necklace.”

“And he’s petrified of Mycroft, which brings us back to Stella yet again.”

Sherlock smiled. “You do so want it to be Stella, don’t you? I never knew that you were the jealous type.”

“I’m not. Why shouldn’t it be Stella anyway?” said John belligerently.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “Aside from the fact that she rather likes me with a pulse, as you’ve clearly noticed, she had absolutely nothing to gain from killing Brunton.  Don’t say necklace, Brunton had already paid her fifteen thousand with another twenty-five due when Reginald signed over the estate.  That necklace is worth thirty thousand, do the math, John.”

“You do it, Stella’s already got fifteen in the bank, plus the thirty grand for the necklace is forty-five thousand, not the forty she would have got from Brunton.”  John knew that was clutching at straws, but he was damned if he was going to lose this argument without a fight.

“So Stella killed Brunton on the off-chance of gaining five thousand pounds?  The only way she could sell the necklace legitimately would by pretending to be Brunton again, but once she’d paid the auction costs she would be lucky to walk away with a profit even if it realised its estimate on the day. All that risk for so little award? Stella’s many things, but she isn’t a fool. And why would she persuade Reginald to ask me for help with a potential murder charge hanging over her? Even I’m not arrogant enough to believe that she was bowled over by my good looks and charm.”

“Well, like you said she isn’t a fool.” John knew when he was beaten.  He shrugged. “I think that’s my department.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Getting cold feet?”

“Getting cold everything in these pyjamas.” John realised that sounded like a very bad chat-up line. “I didn’t mean…”

Sherlock laughed.

John grinned back at him and in that moment the last of his doubts vanished.  He stepped up to Sherlock and clasped his shoulders.  Sherlock shuffled back a bit on the desk, spreading his legs so that John could stand between them.  They kissed.  It was not so unfamiliar now, the feel of a masculine mouth beneath his own lips.  He was at ease with Sherlock, safe, regardless of the razor-edged danger that so often surrounded him. 

“I trust you,” murmured John.

Sherlock chuckled. “With your virtue?”

“With my life.”

“Then you are a fool.” Sherlock cupped John’s face in his hands and kissed him soundly.

When their lips parted John glanced up at the ceiling. “Nope, the roof hasn’t fallen in on us.”  He linked his arms around Sherlock’s neck and leant in for another kiss. “I could get used to this.”  John cradled the back of Sherlock’s head, kissing them both breathlessly.

They cast the blankets aside. John traced the gape of Sherlock’s borrowed pyjama jacket with steady hands; ribs, sternum, almost too thin, and the hard nub of a nipple. John had never been that sensitive there, but he flicked his thumb across it anyway and he gloried in the minuscule shiver of response.  They kissed again, all at an angle with Sherlock leaning back supported by John’s encircling arms.

“God,” muttered John. Sherlock had locked his ankles around the back of his calves. He put one hand on Sherlock’s thigh to brace himself and licked his way across his clavicle. Retaliation was in the hands that rested first on his waist and then lower, down to squeeze his arse through his pyjama bottoms.  John tensed and tried to cover his reaction with a surfeit of kisses. Somehow that touch seemed more intimate than all that had gone before it.

“Okay?” Sherlock whispered against his lips.

“Never better.” John was grateful that Sherlock didn’t question the half-truth. He gripped the edge of the desk in his left hand. The icy wood was a strange juxtaposition to the warm tremble of skin and muscle under his other hand.  Desire burnt through him and John pressed even closer. His weight pushed Sherlock back and a rain of objects clattered down onto the floor.

John eyed the still cluttered surface. “Well, shagging on the desk is out.”

“Blankets,” commanded Sherlock breathlessly.

They spread the blankets on the floor with indecent haste, one to lie on and the rest to cover them. John threw two well-worn cushions onto their makeshift bed. He hadn’t expected to be this eager or for his pyjamas to suddenly be so constricting around the groin.  Maybe it was absurd to be amazed by the obvious, but he still couldn’t quite believe that he was reacting this way to another man. Not even to Sherlock who was as glassy-eyed and eager as he was.  That only made John more anxious. He hadn’t been this nervous as a teenager fumbling this way through his first seduction. Perhaps because Tracey Braithwaite in a Ford Escort hadn’t been nearly as important as Sherlock Holmes in the library. 

“I don’t want to muck this up,” he confessed.

“You won’t,” said Sherlock. He gestured at John’s pyjamas. “Those look uncomfortable. Why don’t you take them off and jump in?”

It was preferable to the awkward eroticism of undressing one another. Even if John hadn’t been self-conscious the icy room would have sent him diving under the blankets the instant he was naked. An equally nude Sherlock joined him there a few seconds later and his skin was chill against John’s back. He put his arm over John’s waist and rested his forehead on his shoulder. John still felt cold. “It’s a shame that we had to put the fire out.”

Sherlock’s laughter gusted over his skin. “We’ll have to find another way to keep warm, won’t we?” He moved even nearer, so that they were pressed together from throat to thigh and John drew his breath in sharply.  Sherlock kissed his shoulder. “You said that you trusted me.”

“I do.” John turned his head and touched his lips to Sherlock’s long fingers. “It just feels odd to lie back and let someone else do the work.”  Unable to endure the passive role for another second John turned over and kissed Sherlock furiously. The response was instant and passionate. Sherlock pushed John back onto the blankets before he rolled them over again, almost into the cold hearth.

It smelt of cinders and of the sooty water that dripped down the iron grate.  The carpet was threadbare and damp under John’s cheek.  He registered those things in a heartbeat before everything narrowed to their tussling entanglement.  It was so very different to making-love with a woman, rougher and far more intense.  Why in god’s name had he never done this before?  John didn’t have the time or the clarity of mind to consider the implications of that before Sherlock threw back the blankets.

Sherlock smiled at him. “Now where were we up to?”  He swopped down on John, continuing from where they had left off when the disorientating Devil’s-foot fumes had interrupted their love-making. 

John gasped, burying his fingers in Sherlock’s hair.  God, he was good at this, as clever and cunning with his mouth as he was with everything else.  If anything was wrong it was that he couldn’t reach Sherlock properly, that he couldn’t caress or hold him in this position. John tugged at Sherlock’s shoulders. “Come here.”

Sherlock reared up over him, bracing his weight on his hands.  His gaze was both wicked and adoring, and his eyes were blown, blacker than the surrounding night.  “Oh, I shall.”

He lowered his head to plunder John’s mouth until he tasted a metallic tang of blood.  John flung his back and moaned.  He dragged Sherlock down on top of him and locked his leg over Sherlock’s thigh.  Why hadn’t they done this months ago? It was amazing. Incredible.  So earthy and physical; there were minor discomforts in the bruising of his ankle on the hearth and the night chill that raised goose-bumps on his shoulders and upper arms.  They were no more than a ghost echo in his mind, the purple fingernails that clawed at his biceps were far more real.   As was the body that heaved over his, all angles and plains, flat chest and hard muscle.   A lingering scent of aftershave below Sherlock’s jawline and a rough scratch of stubble. 

John gave as good as he got, replicating the touches he liked best in the absence of any other information and he was rewarded with a broken groan.  His laugh was a breathless shudder of pure joy. “I know how…oh, god…” John had meant to say that he knew how to make Sherlock behave now, but Sherlock was very far from behaving. Those hands were positively wicked.  John surged up to meet his thrusts. 

“John…”  Lust, exuberance and desperation in a cut-glass baritone.  There was no respite, no quarter given on either side.  This was insanity.  John felt the shift-bump of Sherlock’s penis on his thigh and his own arousal was squeezed between their close pressed bodies.  The rhythm shattered as they came apart. Together.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The resolution of a mystery...

There was still the vexed question of who had tried to kill them.

“Not to mention Brunton,” said John.

“Oh, I think we should mention Brunton, he’s the key to all of this.”  Sherlock took the photograph of Brunton over to the library window.  He studied it in the mid-morning sunlight that lit up the dowdy glass.   That black spotted window pane also provided a reverse, ethereal image of John, back in his own skin of jeans and olive green jumper, but apparently with no regrets.  Given his own woeful lack of practice and John’s complete lack of experience with men Sherlock was amazed that everything had gone as well as it had.  He was sure that there were a dozen unscientific and sentimental reasons for that, but he eschewed those in favour of winding John up.

Sherlock went over to the fireplace. “I think I’ll put this on here.” He propped the photo up against the clock.

“How will that help?”

“Oh, it might provide some inspiration of one sort or another. He was quite good-looking.”

“Not when I saw him in the morgue he wasn’t,” retorted John.

Touché. Sherlock tried not to laugh. He scrutinised the photograph, a youngish man seated on the edge of a desk, duplicitous in his apparent pleasantness. Coveting and conniving, Machiavellian in his cleverness, but defeated in the end by the slam of a trapdoor.

His own brilliance, the lighting fast skill of deduction that had made him the world’s only consulting detective seemed to have been sublimated to the sea-change in his relationship with John.  It was difficult to clear all the romantic, erotic nonsense out of his head.   Was this the ultimate disadvantage of love, this clouding of judgement with sentiment?  Even the seared in his mind memory of John’s drug induced terror triggered a fury that was not contusive to clear thinking.  Would he lose the most important part of himself in a mire of emotion?

“Are you okay?” asked John.

“I’m thinking,” snapped Sherlock and he tried to do just that, but the perception he needed still eluded him. Only there was something about that photograph - John’s arm stole around his waist and tore the unfinished thought from his mind.  Sherlock swore, loudly and furiously.

John drew back.  “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

“You are.”

“Thanks very-”

“No, shut up and listen.”  Sherlock held his hand up, fingers splayed. “You’re affecting my thinking in ways that I didn’t anticipate.”

John folded his arms. “Which is Sherlock speak for what exactly?”

“I don’t know.”  He did know that he didn’t want to lose John, so he made an effort to control his irritation.  “I didn’t expect to be quite so distracted by us, but I can’t focus on my work.   I’m too aware of you all the time, where you are, what you’re doing and saying, and I’ve always been able to ignore you before.”

“Thanks a lot,” said John, but he was smiling.

“That isn’t entirely true anyway.” Sherlock felt suddenly bashful. “I’ve always been more aware of you than I ought to have been.”

John pulled his face. “That makes two of us.”  He laid his hand on Sherlock’s arm. “At least you knew that you fancied me. I was the one who was in denial, not gay, not interested, and not honest with myself or with you.”  John ran his hand down Sherlock’s forearm and held his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Sherlock kissed him gently. “Just ignore me if I snap at you.”

“I usually do.”  They exchanged tender smiles. John traced the back of his index finger over Sherlock’s jaw. “This is what being in love is like.” He went very red. “Not that you are, not that we are…I mean, it’s early days yet….we’re making a bloody mess of this, aren’t we?”

“No more than we usually do.” Sherlock took John’s face in his hands and kissed him again. They hugged one another and then stood at arm’s length with their hands clasped.

John jerked his head at the photograph. “What about him?”

“Not my type.” Sherlock touched his lips to John’s forehead. “However, his murder is still a mystery to unravel.” 

“Okay, so if Reginald’s too spineless and you’re absolutely certain that it’s not Stella?”

“Means and opportunity, but no motive and I got a good look at her hands whilst she was painting my nails, there’s nothing to indicate that she’s been anywhere near that cellar recently.”

“That leaves the Hatherleys then,” said John.  “They must have decided that it was worth killing Brunton for thirty grand’s worth of sparkly diamonds.”

“People have certainly killed for less, greed, like love, is an irrational emotion.”  Sherlock stared at Brunton’s photo. Then he turned away from it and strode across the library. He sprung up onto the window seat and stood there looking down at John. “Imagine that you’re a doctor – a dull, but well paid suburban GP – would you risk your career and your liberty for that necklace?”

“It would depend how desperate I was for the money,” John thought about it. “If I was settled and happy I wouldn’t bother. I’d have to know how to fence it for a start and common sense would tell me that I could only get a fraction of its real value.  Maybe ten thousand if I was lucky?  Hardly worth risking everything for unless I had a drink problem, a gambling problem, massive debts or an expensive mistress?”

“None of the above.” Sherlock jumped down from the windowsill. “Neither Victor not Rachel have any dark habits.  She’s been married before and her two daughters live with their father because she travels about so much, but it’s all very civilised.”

“Perhaps there’s something that you’ve missed?” suggested John.  

“Nope. Nothing. So we return to the irrational, the illogic motive.  One or another, perhaps both, foolishly grasping at a fake fortune, killing for it and then being desperate enough to try to  dispose of us as well.”

“Wonderful.” John breathed out in a long sigh. “We’ve no proof and without that there’s no chance of ever getting a conviction.”

“Then I’ll find the proof.” Sherlock caught John’s hand in his and pulled him back to the window. “Illogical motives, illogical risks, careless, clumsy, one or both, there must be dozens of scraps of evidence.”

“Well, you haven’t found them yet, have you?”

Sherlock glared at John.  He had hit the nail squarely on the head.  His rational process of deduction had been derailed by their love affair. If there had been glaringly obvious clues that pointed straight to the Hatherleys he had been blind to them.

John turned his hand over and dropped a kiss onto his palm. “Why don’t we go over it all again?”

“You tell it in your simple, unobservant way and I’ll listen.”  Sherlock drew John down onto the window seat.  He kept hold of his hand and closed his eyes.

“Okay, simply, as far as we know the Hatherley’s were in bed when we arrived and I met them at breakfast the next morning. Rachel was injured when that glass jar exploded. I went with them to the hospital and got her admitted overnight as you wanted. Victor stayed in town with her.  They came back the next afternoon. Rachel and Stella had a cat-fight that evening, and Rachel stormed out. Victor went after her. We didn’t see them again after that business with the lamp and highly bloody embarrassing it was as well. Rachel wanted to call the police, which seems to suggest that she’s innocent.” John took a deep breath. “Does any of that help at all?”

“Hush.” Sherlock tugged on John’s hand.   It was like a mental roller-coaster ride, adding in all the twists and turns, reconstructing his search of the Hatherley’s rooms while they’d been at the hospital.  Expressions. Gestures.  Broken fragments of conversation.  A minuscule stain on a cuff. Mud.  Only to be expected, neither worked in a clean environment. Dirty sex. Vodka and handcuffs. Not illegal.  Not innocent. Not sweet. Lemon.

“It was Rachel.” Sherlock’s eyes flew open. His expression was gleeful and triumphant.  “And I know exactly why she did it.”

*

Stella had decked the library out as a makeshift dining room, complete with carnations and candles. Keeping up appearances in the grand tradition of the aristocracy she aspired to.  She had cajoled Reginald into bringing up a couple of bottles up from the cellar.  He had opened an elderly bottle of sherry and tried his best to be a pleasant host.

Sherlock and John had both set their untouched glasses aside, although Victor drank his with a grimace and Rachel with apparent enjoyment.  She had no idea that he had disentangled her scheme or that this was her last night of freedom.

Everyone kept the conversation light and polite. Sherlock sat on the sofa with his arm around John’s shoulders, throwing the occasional remark into the pool of small talk.

Stella brought round a pale blue plate of canapés. “You two look cosy.”

“We are,” said John.

Stella gave a dainty shrug. “You can’t blame a girl for trying.”

“I don’t,” said John with a consolatory smile. 

Stella patted him on the shoulder and went to sit beside Reginald.  She slipped her arm through his and cuddled up to him.  He looked absurdly pleased and proud. Sherlock hoped that not a hint of that besotted look ever showed on his face when he looked at John.  It would ruin his cold, analytical image. To him his had been a conundrum that had only become personal when it had affected John.

John had been more aware of the human factor, of Brunton’s final agony.   “No one deserves to die like that,” he had said.  And Sherlock had been touched by John’s conscience, fuel to the fire of his anger and now came the retribution.  He flexed his hand on John’s and stood up, centre stage, until the conversation around him shrivelled into silence.

“What is it, Sherlock?” asked Reginald.

“You asked me to come here and solve a mystery and that’s what I’ve done, albeit not quite the mystery you had in mind.”

Reginald glanced anxiously at the Hatherleys. “Then we should discuss this in private.”

“I think not. This concerns everyone.” Sherlock rested his arm on the mantelpiece.  Out of the corner of his eye he saw John move so as to impede anyone who made a sudden break for the door.  “None of you, with one possible exception can claim to be entirely innocent in this matter.”

“What bleeding matter?” demanded Victor.

 “Ah, the exception.”  For a moment Sherlock felt almost sorry for Victor.  He turned his most charming smile on Rachel. “Shall I explain it all to him or will you?”

“Go on,” she said quietly.  Victor looked at her with a question in his eyes, but she ignored him.

“Let’s start with a lie, shall we?  Reginald asked me here to locate a diamond necklace, one that his grandfather being an officer and a gentleman had stolen at the end of the war.  Brunton had subsequently stolen it from him and the secret of its hiding place had died with him.  Are you all with me so far?”

“Just get on with it,” said John.

Sherlock gave him a dirty look, but John just lifted an eyebrow. “Briefly then, the necklace actually belong to Brunton, brought as an investment from his inheritance.  Reginald and Stella just rather liked the idea of ‘inheriting’ it in turn, illegally of course.”

Victor was appalled. “That’s disgusting, what kind of lowlife steals from the dead?”

Reginald hung his head, but Stella tossed hers defiantly. “The dead don’t bloody well want it, do they? It was no use to Freddie anymore.”

“You really are-”

“To continue.” Sherlock spoke over Victor’s rising temper. The man sensed that there were darker revelations to follow and fear drove his bluster.  Victor tried to take Rachel’s right hand, but she pulled it away from him.  Her left hand was clawed into the sofa cushions, but she met Sherlock’s gaze head on.

“Thirty thousand pounds worth of diamonds are a solid enough motive for murder, but Brunton wasn’t killed for the necklace. Was he, Rachel?”

Rachel’s eyes flickered, but she kept her nerve. “How the hell should I know?”

“What are you asking her for?” demanded Victor almost simultaneously.

“Good lord,” said Reginald.

Only Stella and John, who knew where the curtain would fall on Sherlock’s performance, kept quiet.

“What the deuce is going on here?” asked Reginald. Stella whispered something in his ear and he looked at her in bewilderment.

Sherlock waited for his audience; for Stella to soothe Reginald so that he sat and listened slack-jawed to his revelations.  For Victor’s disbelief to be overlaid with a dread that brought tears to his eyes.  Heavy and ham-fisted he scrubbed his hands across his face, reminding Sherlock of a story book illustration of a weeping giant.  If Sherlock had needed confirmation, which he did not, it would have been there in Victor’s anguish and in Rachel’s cold and resigned face.

John must have been it too because he walked across the shabby carpet to pour the dregs of Reginald’s whiskey out for Victor. “Here, drink this.”  Victor took the tumbler and stared numbly down into it. John looked at Sherlock over his head. “Wrap it up, will you?”

“Perhaps I should, after all the police are already on their way.”

“Bastard,” Rachel snared at him. She snatched the glass from Victor and hurled it into the hearth.

Sherlock didn’t flinch when the shards of glass exploded behind him. “When Brunton’s parents died he inherited their house, their bank account and all those curious little objects people accumulate over a lifetime.  Most of the sentimental trash went into the rubbish bin, but he kept a few things.”

“What’s that got to do with Rachel?” Victor struggled to hold onto his delusions, but they were dissolving rapidly.   He grabbed Rachel and shook her violently. “Were you screwing him, you bitch?”

“No.” Rachel yanked herself out of his grip and wrapped her arms around her waist.

“Not like that postgraduate student in Leicester then,” said Sherlock.  He looked at Victor. “You forgave her that time, didn’t you? But this is something else entirely, this is premeditated murder or are you going to tell me that it was an accident, Rachel?”

“I’m not going to tell you anything,” said Rachel.  She was trembling, clinging onto the visages of her self-control.

“All right, I’ll tell you.” If he hadn’t despised her so much Sherlock might have felt some grudgingly admiration for her. Not for Rachel the garbled last minute confession. He doubted that the police would get much out of her either.  “One day Rachel went into Brunton’s office and she saw something on his desk, a nothing little something to all appearances, but she’s an archaeologist and she knew how much it was worth.”  Sherlock stood over Rachel, so that she had to look up at him. “She bided her time and then said that she liked it, that it would be good for paperclips, hairpins…” He clicked his fingers at John who handed him a small object which Sherlock set down carefully on the coffee table. “Or even lemon sherbets.”

A nondescript pale green glass bowl sat in the centre of the table, emptied of its contents it was dull and unreflective, disfigured by a hairline crack on one side. 

“That’s nothing,” protested Victor. “Just an old bowl we keep beside the bed with a few sweets in it. Rachel got it at a car-boot sale.”

“Is that what she told you? Well. she probably offered Brunton money for it, a fiver or tenner, not enough to make him suspicious.  He refused, sentimental value, it had been in his family for years.  Rachel didn’t dare push too hard, but she wanted that bowl, so the devil came out to play.” Sherlock lifted the bowl to the light. “It’s particularly unique, you see, Persian, four and half thousand years old and worth half a million at auction.”  He juggled the bowl from hand to hand and Rachel flinched towards it before she stopped herself.

“Show off,” muttered John.  He stood behind the sofa. There would be no escape for Rachel that way.

“I still can’t believe that thing’s worth five hundred grand,” said Stella.  Reginald simply looked stunned.

“That’s precisely what Rachel was relying on.”  Sherlock held the glass bowl up between his thumb and forefinger. “Hidden in plain sight, a dull piece of glassware full of cheap sweets.” He gave John a quick smile. “Like having a Stradivarius among all the junk on your desk.”

“It was there for ages, no one ever noticed it.” Rachel looked at him with loathing in her eyes. “No one except you.”

“Obviously and you knew that I would.”  Sherlock wasn’t going to admit how close he had come to not seeing it.  “That’s why you staged that argument with Stella, it gave you an excuse to slam out of the library. It gave you the minute or two you needed to smear the Devil’s-foot root all over our lamp. It’s an antiqued poison, one that you might come across if you were researching the past, digging into it on a daily basis. You had a springer spaniel once, didn’t you, one that died suddenly while Victor was at work?”

“Billy?” Victor looked at Rachel in horror. “Bloody hell, he was my Dad’s dog.”

Sherlock tutted impatiently.  “Once she’d tested the old drug on the dog Rachel used it on Brunton while he was looking for the passage that led from the cellar to the church.  She offered to help him with the trapdoor. Then she dropped the powder into the priest’s hole, where the fervid conditions would slowly activate it and slammed the trapdoor down. Simple and deadly.  All she had to do then was to swipe the bowl and stick a few sweets in it.”

“No comment,” said Rachel emotionlessly. She was beyond tears or hopeless pleading.  “Did you see the photograph next to my bed…my girls? We could have been together…”  Rachel ground her lips together, sealing off any more damning words.

“What about me?” whispered Victor.

Rachel didn’t answer.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And a new beginning for Sherlock and John.

The day was heavy and overcast, mist clung stubbornly to the curves of the lake, a dank grey veil over the brackish water.  Rachel had gone, taken away by the police in handcuffs, and Victor was devastated, and furious. Such was the price of love.

“That’s that then,” said John. “Only Stella and Reginald are itching to know what you’re going to do about that bloody necklace.”

“It’s not here. It was never here, at least not for more than a few days.  Brunton didn’t tell Stella everything, so all her scheming was doomed to failure; our involvement, that sketch of the necklace she planted in Brunton’s room, all utterly pointless.” Sherlock kept his hands in his coat pockets. It was cold down at the water’s edge.  “The necklace is in a safety deposit box in Exeter.”

“When did you find that out?”

“Only this morning.” Sherlock pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket. “See for yourself.”  The text was from Mycroft and Sherlock saw John’s eyebrows go up as he read it.  _Barking up the wrong tree again, Sherlock? Brunton deposited necklace West Counties Bank, Exeter.  Congratulations, I hope that you and John will be very happy together._

“How the hell did he know?” asked John.

“And how can a text sound sarcastic?” Sherlock took his phone back. “Mycroft knows because Reginald’s been spying for him all along.”

“Reginald’s scared stiff of Mycroft…okay, point taken, but he thought that we were partners, lovers, before we even arrived here.”

“Whilst Mycroft knew that we weren’t, not until now.”  Sherlock remembered how Mycroft had been aware of his interest in John from the first.  He had hinted and teased, and warned him that it might well all end in heartbreak.  How he would love to prove his supercilious brother wrong.  Yet the future was uncharted and who knew if John would remain steadfast in his affections?

“Maybe he wasn’t being sarcastic.” John indicated the phone in Sherlock’s hand. “Perhaps Mycroft genuinely does want us to be happy.”

Sherlock snorted scornfully. Then he sighed. “What do you want?”

“The same I guess.” John rested his hand on Sherlock’s cheek. “Let’s just see if we can make this work, okay? One day at a time, while we try to get our heads around it all without driving each other nuts.” He kissed Sherlock gently.  “I never expected to fall in love with a man.”

“I never expected to fall in love.” 

That heartfelt confession moved John. Sherlock saw the blink of tears in his eyes and wondered foolishly how they could blur his own vision. It must be the shimmer from the sunless lake, a stray strand of mist that had crept into his eyes.

John’s little laugh was choked with emotion. “We’re a right bloody pair, Mycroft’s going to have a field day.”

“We’ll see shall we?” Sherlock squared his shoulders, all this wallowing in sentiment just wouldn’t do. “Anyway, there’s nothing else we can do here, so we may as well head home this afternoon.”

“Suits me. It feels like we’ve been away for weeks instead of just a few days.”

There was no need to speak of how much had changed between them in such a short time. It was all there in the smile in John’s eyes and in how he leant into Sherlock’s touch.  His jawline was slightly rough and there was a reddened splash across his forehead where he had caught the sun.  John lifted his chin ready to meet Sherlock’s lips measure for measure.

Sherlock stepped back instead, impish and laughing. “We had better go and pack.”

John grabbed the nape of his neck and hauled him back into his embrace. “Shut up, idiot.”

They were breathing heavily when they finally raised their heads. The same thought was reflected in both their faces, but Sherlock shook his head. “Not if Reginald’s reporting everything back to Mycroft.”

John glanced past him at the grimy sandstone walls of Hurlstone. “He’d need a bloody telescope to see us from there.”

Sherlock shifted his gaze to the canopy of leaves high above them. “Or a CCTV camera in the trees.”

John laughed. “007 Reginald? That’s hardly likely, is it?”

“Try 007 Mycroft, that’s much more probable.”

John’s smile vanished. He looked up into the trees almost as if he expected Mycroft himself to suddenly spring out of them. “Right, fine, why would your brother want to spy on us having sex? Make it good, Sherlock, because this is starting to feel decidedly creepy.”

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to laugh at John’s priceless and rather appealing expression. “The sex has got nothing to do with it. Mycroft’s not a voyeur, but he does like to know what I’m doing.” He touched John’s jaw. “You do realise that he’s had us both under surveillance since the day we met?”

 “You’re kidding?”  John looked into Sherlock’s face. “I’ll kill him.”

With John such statements were not always merely bluster and fury, he could and had killed, but Sherlock wasn’t perturbed. “Many have tried and many have floundered, besides you wouldn’t really shoot my only living relative, would you?”

“No,” admitted John grudgingly, “but I might thump him next time I see him. How close a surveillance?”

“Mycroft has very few scruples and we know that our flat was bugged at least once.” Sherlock put his arms around John’s waist and drew him close to soften the blow. “Anything and everything, John, I can’t guarantee that he hasn’t had a surveillance camera in our shower or in your bedroom.”

“Or in my girlfriend’s bedroom?” John looked a bit green around the gills.

“In any of your girlfriend’s bedrooms, but it isn’t sexual and it isn’t personal.  Mycroft’s seen it all before and as far as I’m aware it doesn’t do anything for him. It’s business, and his business is espionage, although he’d prefer to call it national security. Prime ministers, presidents, royalty, we’re in good company, John.”

 “Oh, that’s all right then.” John sighed. “Do you approve?”

“Not entirely and certainly not when it’s me that he’s bugging, mind you Mycroft has been bugging me in one way or another ever since the day I was born.”

John smiled and snuggled closer. “Did you two really grow up in a castle?”

Sherlock remembered the dank, isolated gloom and the stark majesty of it all. He kissed John’s wind chapped lips. “I could never decide if I loved it or loathed it. My parents moved there when Mycroft was five so I never knew any other childhood home.”

“Did your father inherit the family estate?”

“Not as you mean, it came to us through my mother’s side of the family and they were never aristocracy, country squires at best.  It was her great-uncle, Mycroft’s namesake, who bought the castle after the first world war when so many of the landed estates were broken up and sold off.  Eventually it came to mother, or at least a quarter share of it did, the rest belonged to her siblings, but they were generous and my parents had nowhere else to go.”

John glanced across the green at Hurlstone house. “Was it a wreck like this place?”

“There was a trust fund that paid for the castle’s upkeep so it wasn’t nearly as bad as this.”

“It looks like we’ve got company,” said John. “It’s just as well that we decided to behave ourselves.”

Sherlock followed the direction of John’s gaze. “Oh, I think that Stella might have enjoyed our performance.” He stepped away from John. Stella was close enough now for him to be about to see her anxious expression. “Although she seems to have other things on her mind at the moment.”

Stella walked right up to Sherlock. “Are you going to tell Reginald about my deal with Freddie?”

“Why shouldn’t he?” said John.

Stella looked daggers at him. “Shut yer gob, I’m talking to the organ grinder not the monkey.”

Sherlock smiled at John. “You can take the boy out of Peckham, but you can’t take Peckham out of the girl. If you’re rude to John I shall certainly tell Reginald everything.”

Stella looked from one to the other. “Sorry guys, I just…look if you tell him I’m screwed big time. It was just insurance, like you said I’m the kid off the North Peckham Estate, the tranny who got away before some chav smashed her face in.  Yeah, I’m tough and I’ve learnt to put myself first, but don’t you think that I’ve had to?”

“Are we supposed to feel sorry for you?” asked Sherlock.

Stella shook her head. “I want another chance, that’s all. Reginald loves me and he loves this miserable dump.” She glanced back at the house. “Maybe I can save it for him cos he hasn’t got a bloody clue. They’d eat him alive where I come from, but he’s a decent bloke.”

“That’s debateable,” said John.  “I’d hardly call the scheme you two cooked up decent.”

“That was my idea, not his,” replied Stella.

“I’m sure that it was,” said Sherlock. “Reginald can be vicious and vindictive, but he hasn’t got the intelligence for plotting and scheming. I’m quite sure that you had to make up crib cards for him, preferably with pictures.”

“Now who’s being rude?” The wind caught Stella’s black hair and she scraped it back off her face. It relieved the heavy line of her jaw and the genuine grief in her eyes. “Do you know how much flack he’s taken off his posh mates for getting involved with me? I’d pack me bags tomorrow and never give this place a second thought, but it means the world to him.”

“So what’s the grand plan this time?” The acid cynicism in Sherlock’s voice made Stella wince, but she held her ground.

“It’s not my plan, it’s Freddie’s.  I think that I can make some of his ideas work, the fishing on the lake, the tearoom in the pavilion.” She smiled with tears in her eyes. “Maybe even the murder mystery weekends.”

“You’ll need money to start with,” Sherlock pointed out.

“I’ve got it. I’ll put my fifteen grand in.”

“And how will you explain that to Reginald?” John asked her.

“I inherited it off a great-aunt I never knew I had.”

“You don’t change.” John turned to Sherlock. “It’s your call.”

It was revenge for the day Victor had thrown him out into the street, for the time Reginald had called the police to Montague Street and above all else for spying for Mycroft. Only Sherlock would settle that score with his brother, the organ grinder not the monkey. The sun emblazed the mullion windows of Hurlstone giving it the illusion of perfection. It had been a beautiful house once and it could be so again. Sherlock understood the value of such history.  “Let’s see if you can confound your critics.”

Stella squealed and threw her arms around his neck.  Sherlock quickly extracted himself from her embrace, out of the corner of his eye he saw John looking both amused and relieved. He had the feeling that he had just passed some sort of test.

*

Sherlock asked John about it when they were stuck in traffic between Victoria Station and Baker Street. “Easy,” said John, “if you could let it all go, if it wasn’t important enough for you to screw things up for Reginald and Stella then I guess that it’s all in the past.”

Sherlock was puzzled. “Didn’t I tell you that? Didn’t I say that you were worth ten of Victor?”

“Not in so many words.” John stared at their joined hands. “We’ve made love precisely once, does that constitute a relationship? A commitment?”

“You’re probably better placed to answer that question than me.”  It was John who understood alien concepts like ‘relationship’ and it was John who had to learn to live in his new gay skin.

“Yeah, I think it does for us.” John smiled shyly. “It’s not just about whether we get off on it, this is us, me and you, John and Sherlock, you and me.”

“I know what ‘us’ means,” remarked Sherlock mildly. He watched the steel and glass buildings drag past as the taxi crawled along.  “Just be certain that you do, that there’s still far too much ignorance and prejudice out there, at some point an outraged citizen will heap abuse on your head.”

“It won’t be the first time I’ve been called a poof.” John laughed at Sherlock’s expression. “I realised that it was an occupation hazard about two weeks after I moved into Baker Street, people haven’t always been complimentary about our alleged relationship.”

“They won’t be,” Sherlock warned him.

“That’s their problem, not ours.” John had his military face on, the one that said that he was ready to do battle with their detractors.  Sherlock studied him carefully.  He needed to be certain that this calm resolve was not a façade.  Body language, posture, the slight upturn of his lips and the steely light in his eyes said that it was not.

“Since when have you cared about what other people think of you anyway?” asked John.

“I don’t. I just wanted to be sure that you didn’t.”

“I don’t either. If we fall apart it won’t be because of other people, it’ll be because we couldn’t cut it.” He raised Sherlock’s hand to his lips and brushed a kiss over it. “Let’s make it work, okay?”

“That’s fine by me.”

They both started to giggle, absurdly, for no reason at all other than that they were happy. Sherlock leant into John’s shoulder.  “Mrs Hudson will be trying to get us married off and I can’t wait to see Lestrade’s face.”

John’s fingers carded through his hair. “Don’t upset him too much, Greg’s a mate, I need someone sane to talk to sometimes and you know nothing about football. You’ll have to go easy on Molly as well.”

“All right.”  There was no pleasure in being unkind to Molly, besides he needed her expertise.

They were almost home, caught in the bumper to bumper creep of traffic over tarmac. Sherlock rapped on the glass partition that separated them from the driver. “You can let us out here.”  He grinned at John. “Race you home.”

“Not fair, your legs are longer than mine,” John complained laughingly as they scrambled out onto the pavement. He shouldered his backpack. “One, two, three, go.”

Sherlock could have outrun him, but why would he want to when life was so much better with John at his side.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading.


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